Ravens Of Blackwater d-2 Page 5

  “My brother was murdered, Father Oslac.”

  “I regret that as much as you.”

  “He was battered to death and thrown into the river. Guy was in the water for days before they found him.” She spread her palms wide in her bewilderment. “Are there not kinder ways for God to summon his servants? Can such hideous slaughter really be part of a sublime plan?”

  “Yes, my lady. There is a reason in all things.” “Then what is the reason here?” she demanded. “It will emerge in time.”

  They were in the main hall and Oslac was finding it difficult to console Matilda FitzCorbucion. Most women in her situation collapsed into helpless grief but she was responding with anger and protest. That was a healthy sign in one way but it put the burden of justifica-tion on the shoulders of the priest. Accustomed to offer condolences in his gentle voice, Oslac was instead caught up in a spirited argument about the nature of death. Matilda would not be calmed with soft words. She wanted straight answers.

  Oslac was a big man of solid build with a face that had weathered

  countless setbacks, yet one that still retained its essential kindness. He had cause to hate the FitzCorbucion family as much as the rest of Maldon did, but he had come to Blackwater Hall in the spirit of Christian love and his presence was a comfort of sorts. Matilda bit her lip and shook her head in apology. She offered her hands and he took them between his own.

  “You need rest, my lady,” he counselled. “How can I sleep at a time tike this?”

  “I have a potion with me that will aid slumber.”

  “Save it for a needier case,” she said. “I am too full of ire to take to my bed. I cried all my tears when our mother died. There are none left for Guy. I cannot weep for his death because the horror of it has enraged me. I want to know who killed him-and why?”

  “That is understandable.”

  “The murderer must be brought to justice.” “He will be.”

  “I must know his reason.”

  Matilda broke away and paced restlessly once more. Oslac watched her. She had grown up in the four years since her mother’s death. On that occasion she had been distraught and vulnerable, grieving over the loss of the one person in Blackwater Hall whom she could love and trust. Matilda was now the lady of the house and she had matured into that position. Oslac could see aspects of her parents blending perfectly in her. The tenderness of her mother was allied to the robustness of her father, the natural grace of the one with the single-mindedness of the other. Matilda also had something of Jocelyn’s questing intelligence but none of the characteristics of her other brother. When Oslac scrutinised her, Guy was invisible.

  “How may I best help?” he asked. “You have done much for us already.” “Call on me for anything.”

  “Track down the killer.”

  “Others will do that better than I.”

  “Then at least tell me his name.” Matilda confronted him again and he shifted his feet uneasily. “Do not hide it from me, Father Oslac. I know the rumours. I have heard the whispers. Guy had many enemies but one in particular longed for his death. Who was he?”

  “There is such a person,” he admitted. “What is his name?”

  “He may be completely innocent …” “His name!” she insisted.

  Oslac hesitated to tell her the truth. While she was still stunned by the death of her brother, it seemed callous to point out that Guy himself-if reports were true-had himself committed a murder. The priest had conducted the burial service for Algar only a few days earlier and he knew that the man’s demise was not the accident the steward of Blackwater claimed it had been. The wretched slave was not the first casualty of Guy FitzCorbucion’s rage but he would certainly be the last. Matilda had been kept ignorant of the whole business and Oslac saw no value in adding to her distress.

  He began to fashion an excuse but it never even left his lips. The door opened and Jocelyn came striding into the hall with the steward at his heels. He looked tired and flushed but there was little indication

  of grief. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying his sudden promotion to the position of authority. It had made him decisive.

  “We have sent for the sheriff,” he said. “This is work for Peter de

  Valognes.”

  “He will find the culprit,” said Oslac.

  “That task may be done before he gets here.” “What do you mean?” asked Matilda.

  “We have examined all the evidence,” said Jocelyn, “and we have taken statements from a number of people. They all say the same thing. Two of them overheard him swear revenge. Others speak of his violent nature. It must be him.”

  “Who?” said Matilda.

  “A boy with a reason to kill.” “A boy?”

  “His name is Wistan. I’ve sent men to arrest him.”

  It was over an hour before Gervase Bret managed to elicit a complete sentence out of her. Sister Tecla was reticence incarnate. As they rode along side by side, he tried every conversational gambit that he knew to provoke her into comment but she stayed beyond his reach. Up ahead of them, Ralph Delchard and Prioress Mindred were chatting volubly and even sharing an occasional laugh. The prioress had far too subtle a mind for Ralph, saw through his purpose at once, and used language to construct a wall of words around her, but at least she was talking. Most of the replies that Gervase got came from the birds or the horses. It was only when he asked the most obvious question of all that he finally broke through the nun’s studied silence.

  “Are you named after St. Tecla?” he wondered. She was amazed. “You have heard of her?”

  “Of course.”

  “But she is a Saxon saint.”

  “So are Oswald and Aldhelm and Botolph,” he observed, “but I have heard of them as well. My mother was a Saxon.”

  “Yet you are in the service of the Normans.”

  “The King of England is my master. He rules over all the people of this land, whatever their origin. That puts us on an equal footing as his subjects.” He felt that a smile was worth trying. “Tecla was a remarkable woman. She was a nun at Wimborne in Dorset, I believe.”

  “That is true.”

  “Her abbess sent her to help Boniface in his missionary work in Germany. She was much loved and respected. Her fame spread throughout Germany. When she died, a shrine was built there. Miracles occurred.” His second smile was more confident. “You bear the name of an outstanding lady.”

  “I am proud to do so.”

  “What other saints do you revere?” “All of them.”

  “A Benedictine house must surely love St. Benedict.”

  “So we do, sir.”

  “Then there is St. Oswald.” “St. Oswald?”

  “The martyr,” he said. “Oswald, King of Northumbria. It was a holy

  relic of his that took you to Barking Abbey. That was the purpose of your visit, was it not?”

  “Why, yes,” she said uncertainly.

  “How much earth are you carrying with you?” “Earth?”

  “From the place where Oswald fell in battle.”

  “A tiny amount, that is all.” She was mildly flustered but soon recovered her poise. “You are very well informed about our English saints.”

  “So I should be. The master of the novices used to beat us soundly if we did not learn our lessons properly.”

  Curiosity made her turn to him for the first time. “You were a pos-

  tulant?” she said. “At which monastery?” “Eltham Abbey.”

  Disappointment showed. “A Norman foundation.”

  “It had due respect for native saints.” To subdue her reservations, he gave her further proof. “St. Oswald was much admired at Eltham. Our abbot took such an interest in him that he actually visited the battlefield where the saint was struck down by Penda, the pagan King of Mercia. The place is in Shropshire, although its name eludes me.”

  “Maserfield.”

  “Thank you, Sister Tecla.”

  “Miracles took place at the very spo
t where he fell.”

  “Yes,” said Gervase. “Praying with his last breath for the souls of the bodyguards who were slain with him. Our abbot told us that so many people have been to Maserfield to get some of the precious earth that they dug a deep trench. St. Oswald’s power reaches well below ground for we have seen how the particles that Prioress Mindred carries are still able to work their magic.”

  “They brought you to us in our time of trial.” “Perhaps they, too, had heard of the miracles.” “Who?”

  “The men who attacked you.”

  An involuntary shiver. “I have tried to forget them.” “They must have been after something,” he probed. “It was terrifying.”

  “Did they try to snatch the holy relic?”

  “I thought we would all be killed.” “Did they grab at the sacred books?” “Then you saved us.”

  “What did those men hope to get?”

  But the directness of his question brought the exchange to an end. Sister Tecla shot him a look of betrayal then urged her horse forward at a trot until she caught up with Prioress Mindred. Safe under the wing of the older woman, she was clearly not going to stir from there for the remainder of the journey. Gervase cursed himself for having blundered. At the very moment he was establishing a rapport with her, he had thrown it away by rushing the procedure. What had been gleaned, however, was confirmation of their earlier suspicion. The men who laid the ambush on the previous day had been after a specific prize and neither of the nuns was ready to disclose what it was. They had something to hide. Gervase Bret spent the rest of the morning wondering what it could be.

  Wistan knew that they would come for him. As soon as the body of Guy FitzCorbucion was found in the waters of the River Blackwater, the boy feared for his safety. Word spread quickly through the estate and there were several who raised a cheer or said a prayer of thanks at the news. The most loathed member of a loathsome family had been murdered and that was a cause for celebration. If it had been left to those who lived and worked on the demesne, the killer would have been rewarded with instant sainthood. He had overcome a veritable force of evil.

  He moved swiftly. Wistan had lingered until darkness fell, then he ran for his life. The river was cold but he was a strong swimmer and he cleaved his way with powerful arms towards the distant blob of Northey Island. Once there, he sought cover and felt marginally more secure. Nobody would search for him at night. When morning came, he went deeper into the island and scooped himself a hiding place in the long grass. The sun soon dried his wet clothes and the fruit he had brought filled his belly. All he could do now was to lie low and hope that they did not find him.

  Wistan had aged considerably. Within the space of little more than a week, a fifteen-year-old boy had turned into a full-grown man. When his father had been killed in front of him, the iron had entered his soul; when Algar was buried in his miserable grave, the boy had renewed his vow of revenge. As he hid in his lair and kept on the alert, Wistan felt more embittered than ever, but there was one consolation. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead. The man who had killed Wistan’s father had himself been cut down without mercy. It was no more man he deserved. Wistan burst into silent laughter and rocked happily to and fro.

  His grisly mirth was short-lived. Something on the mainland caught his eye. Deep in his burrow, he saw a distant column of smoke rising into the clear blue sky and he knew instantly what it meant. They were searching for him. They had seen that he had fled and so they set fire to his hovel. The little wooden hut that he had shared with his father all those years was being destroyed out of sheer spite. Thatch burned well and the smoke was now billowing. Wistan was unmoved. He was not afraid of them any longer. They had simply given him one more reason to hate the ravens of Blackwater.

  Chapter Three

  Long before they reached Maldon, they saw it rising majestically before them in the distance. Surrounded by fertile farm land, it sat on the top of a steep hill, which overlooked the estuary and the lower reaches of the Chelmer and Blackwater valleys. It was a prosperous town of well over a thousand inhabitants, most of whom were engaged in agriculture or related occupations, but with a sizeable number who made their living as fishermen and coastal traders. A few, with larger crafts and greater ambitions, sailed across to France and the Low Countries to develop international commerce. Maldon’s position, high on a tidal estuary, made it one of the key ports in the region. Apart from Colchester, it was the only place in Essex that had been given borough status and its preeminence was marked by three churches, a royal mint, and a flourishing market. After a painstaking journey from one small village to another, the travellers were glad to see a real town dominating the horizon and to know that they would reach their destination before nightfall.

  Ralph Delchard was pleased with their achievement.

  “I feared we might not get here before dark,” he said, “but those nuns sit on fine palfreys that will trot for hours on end. I have never seen religion ride so fast.”

  “They were as anxious to reach Maldon as we were,” said Gervase, beside him. “We questioned them too closely and that lent spurs to their heels.”

  “Prioress Mindred gave nothing away.” “Nor did Sister Tecla.”

  “We will have to be more guileful with them,” decided Ralph. “They are certainly concealing something from us and I intend to find out what it is.”

  “All will be revealed in time.”

  “Conduct them safely to their priory, Gervase.” “Why me?”

  “Because I am not ready to ride into the town.” “But that hill should give us a wonderful view.”

  “That is my fear,” admitted Ralph. “A wonderful view of the sea. I am too weary to cope with that now. It would turn my stomach and prevent my sleep.”

  “Take heart, Ralph,” said the other. “All you would see from Maldon is the river estuary. The sea itself is miles away from the town.”

  “Water is water. I prefer the sight of land.”

  Gervase Bret was puzzled. Ralph Delchard was such a courageous man-and had proved it on so many occasions-that it was difficult to believe anything could actually frighten him. With a sword in his hand, the Norman lord would meet any adversary without flinching but the arts of war could not subdue the rolling waves. Gervase could think of only one reason why the sea should exert such power over his friend. Ralph could not swim.

  When they got within half a mile of the town, the party divided into two. The commissioners were staying at a nearby manor house. After a flurry of farewells and an expression of sincere gratitude from the prioress, Ralph Delchard went off with Canon Hubert, Brother Simon, and four of his men while Gervase Bret continued on the road to Maldon with the rest of the company. Shadows were lengthening by the time they had climbed the hill, but there was still enough light left for the visitors to take stock of the place. The returns made by the first commissioners showed that Maldon had one hundred and eighty houses, most of them belonging to the King and held directly from him by local burgesses. What Gervase had not gleaned from his documents was the fact that the vast majority of dwellings were built of timber. High Street was one long avenue of wood and thatch with only the occasional stone structure to counter the distinctive feel of an old Saxon burh.

  Far below them, the Blackwater estuary was patrolled by gulls, oystercatchers, and honking geese. The thick ribbon of water twisted leisurely towards the sea and Gervase could pick out a couple of small boats navigating their way past Osea Island against the tidal flow. The priory stood on a patch of land near the lower end of High Street and thus overlooked the Hythe, the town’s harbour, and its adjacent Church of St. Mary’s. He was fascinated to see the little convent, which seven nuns shared with Prioress Mindred. It was a single-storey building of wood, reinforced with stone and set at right angles to a tiny stone-built chapel. The houses in the town had almost no land attached to them but the priory boasted the best part of an acre, most of it given over to a walled garden. Gervase realised why the property ha
d not been recorded by the first team of commissioners. When they visited Maldon a year or so earlier, the priory had not existed. It was one of many features of the town that the original survey had perforce omitted.

  Fatigued by the journey himself, Gervase knew that the two women

  must be exhausted but there was no sign of it in their gentle smiles and their upright posture. As travelling companions, they had been pleasant and uncomplaining, although he was still none the wiser about the true purpose of their visit to Barking Abbey. When they reached the gate, Gervase dismounted quickly so that he could help the prioress down from her horse. She thanked him profusely and he turned to perform the same service for Sister Tecla, holding her mount with one hand while offering her the support of the other. Although she said nothing, there was such warm gratitude in her manner that he was amply rewarded. He was no longer being blamed for his earlier overeagerness in questioning her. Sister Tecla had clearly forgiven him.

  The gate of the priory opened and a stout figure of middle height

  stepped out to greet the two women. Her body seemed about to burst out of her habit but her face was so completely enclosed by her wimple that only a few inches of flesh were visible around a pair of steely eyes. Prioress Mindred allowed no more than a token kiss but Sister Tecla was given a welcoming embrace. It was not extended to Gervase Bret. As the nun’s gaze fell on him, it hardened into abstract hostility.

  “This is Sister Gunnhild,” introduced the prioress. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  Gervase inclined his head politely but he got no more than a curt nod in return. Sister Gunnhild was too old to bother with pretence and social nicety. She disliked men.

  Like its eccentric owner, Champeney Hall was a weird mixture of Norman and Saxon, with a strong bias towards the former held in check by an unexpected nostalgia for the latter. To all outward appearances, the manor house was the archetypal dwelling of a thegn, a long, low building that was constructed of heavy timber and roofed with shingled wood. Internally, it bore no resemblance to the home that had served the Saxon lord who built it. In those days, the hall was divided into a series of bays, which acted as separate living quarters for the thegn, his family, his servants, his farm labourers, and even some of his livestock. Gilbert Champeney made radical alterations to that scheme of things. His home was neatly partitioned by stone walls with solid doors and he had raised the slope of the roof at the rear of the property so that it was possible to move around each chamber without banging a head against a rafter. A large, two-storey, stone-built wing had been added so that the simplicity of the Saxon hall was offset by the brooding sophistication of a Norman keep.