Ravens Of Blackwater d-2 Read online

  “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 envis-aged. 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-hor
ses 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 guard-boards 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 counte-nance. “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 nonexist-ence. 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 canon-ized 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 hour.”

  “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.

  Ralph Delchard took the column of horses off on the next stage of its journey. Riding beside him, Gervase talked of the cunning interrogation he had just witnessed.

  “Hubert was masterly.”

  “I refuse to be
lieve that.”

  “He turned the abbess on like a tap and information poured out of her. It was a striking performance.”

  “Between Hubert and a woman! Never!”

  “We heard much praise of Maldon Priory.” “Spare me the details, Gervase.”

  “And much criticism of Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

  “Now, that is more interesting,” conceded Ralph. “We will have to call Hamo before us on many charges. What did the noble lady have to say on that disagreeable subject?”

  “Exactly what the documents tell us,” said Gervase as he patted the leather satchel, which was slung from the pommel of his saddle. “FitzCorbucion is a notorious landgrabber, feared by all and sundry, rejoicing in that fear. He is entirely without scruple and will fight over every inch of land and blade of grass we try to take from him.”

  “Then we must fight harder.”

  “Abbess Aelfgiva warned us to move with care.”

  Ralph was scornful. “We have a royal warrant to support us,” he said. “That means we can slap down any man in the land if he obstructs our purpose. The abbess may treat Hamo with caution but I will stand for none of his antics. I am not riding all this way to be thwarted by a robber baron.” He relaxed slightly and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “What did you think of the place?”

  “Barking Abbey? I was most impressed.”

  “So was the Conqueror,” said Ralph. “He stayed there until they had built enough of the Tower of London for him to be accommodated in the city. It is one of the reasons why he acknowledged all of the Abbey charters. Barking lost none of its holdings.”

  “Unlike Waltham.”

  “Yes, Gervase. Unlike Waltham.”

  Barking Abbey was one of the wealthiest of the nine English nunneries. Only Wilton and Shaftesbury had richer endowments and a larger annual income. The Conquest had inflicted little damage on these houses but the same could not be said for Waltham Abbey, which lay not far north of Barking. The college of secular canons was founded by King Harold and punished because of that association. Before he succeeded to the throne, Harold was Earl of Essex with over thirty manors in the county. William the Conqueror seized these, along with the estates formerly owned by Waltham Abbey, feeling that he had just cause to strip the latter of its bounty. Gervase Bret reminded his companion why.