Ravens Of Blackwater d-2 Read online

  “My friend?”

  “Humphrey Aureis testiculi.” “You jest with me.”

  “He was here, I tell you. Look at those names.”

  Ralph did so and one of them jumped right out at him. “Humphrey! He exists! He was in this very room!”

  “And you did not even notice him,” chided Gervase.

  “I was too busy,” said Ralph, almost distraught. “He was here in front of my nose and I missed him. I will not rest until I know.” He executed a dance of delight. “By all, this is wonderful! Goldenbollocks is real!”

  “He is-and they are.”

  “You saw him?”

  “He was not difficult to pick out.” “In the flesh?”

  “Humphrey sat in the middle of the hall,” said Gervase with mock

  seriousness, enjoying a chance to tease Ralph for a change. “I singled him out at once.”

  “But the place was full of people. How ever did you recognise my

  Humphrey in that crowd?” “Easily.”

  “By intuition?”

  “No,” said Gervase. “Latin translation.”

  Ralph Delchard shook with mirth for fifteen minutes.

  Chapter Four

  Baldon priory was a recent foundation, which had blended so quickly and so easily into its surroundings that it seemed always to have been there. The regular tolling of its little bell was almost as familiar a sound in the town as the incessant cries of its gulls and it was taken for granted in the same way. Some nunneries were simply a part of double-houses and Mass was celebrated by a resident staff of chaplains under the supervision of a chapter priest, but the priory was essentially a female enclave. There were those who maintained that women should be spared the full rigours of the Benedictine Order with its regime of self-denial and its emphasis on the importance of manual labour. Prioress Mindred did not share this view and made few concessions to soften the lives of her nuns. Eight times a day, they entered the miniscule chapel to sing the sequence of offices and each one of them accepted Chapter Forty-eight of the Rule with its unequivocal stipulation-“Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Therefore, the brothers should work with their hands at fixed times of day, and at other fixed times should read sacred works.” What was prescribed for the brothers, the prioress believed, should also apply to holy sisters. They, too, had souls.

  “Has all been well in my absence, Sister Gunnhild?”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

  “Have you met with any problems?”

  “None.”

  “No misbehaviour to report?”

  “Not while I have been in charge here.”

  Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with the stout Sister Gunnhild, who was far and away the most senior and experienced nun at the convent. Gunnhild was a Dane and old enough to remember when a Danish King, Cnut, sat on the throne of England and ruled the country with a mixture of harsh statute and Christian precept. She had been a bride of Christ infinitely longer than Mindred herself and was far more qualified for the office of prioress, but she did not dwell on that thought and instead bent herself readily to the latter’s command. Lady Mindred was the widow of a Saxon nobleman, who had left her with substantial wealth and a deep emptiness at the centre of her existence. Since it was her money that founded the priory, she was the natural choice as its first mother and she was delighted when the Abbess of Barking assigned Sister Gunnhild to Maldon to assist her. Mindred’s high ideals and Gunnhild’s practical experience were a potent combination.

  “We are pleased to have you back, Reverend Mother.” “Thank you, Sister Gunnhild.”

  “How did you find them all at Barking?”

  “In good spirits. The abbess sends you her love.”

  “I hope you conveyed mine to her,” said Gunnhild.

  “To her and to the holy sisters. You are greatly missed there.” The prioress smiled. “But what they have lost, we have certainly gained. You are a foundation stone, Gunnhild.”

  “I serve God in the way that He chooses for me.” “You are an example to us all.”

  “So are you, Reverend Mother.”

  Gunnhild’s face was still so hidden by her wimple that only her nose and eyes could be properly seen. Some of those who had come to the priory were still too bound up in the vanities of the world and they had to be taught to neglect their beauty, conceal their hair, and subdue any bodily charms behind the black anonymity of their habits. The severity of a Gunnhild was the desired target to which all the sisters-with greater or lesser degrees of success-endeavoured to aim, but not all of them were fired with the same devotion as the Danish nun. Some had resorted to the cloister because they could find no earthly bridegroom or because they needed a refuge from the continuing turmoil of Norman occupation. Prioress Mindred-herself a late convert to the notion of living in a religious house-was determined to allow no laxity in her tiny community and to turn her nuns into truly spiritual beings, whatever their original motives for taking the veil. In this work, as in every other aspect of the daily round at the priory, Sister Gunnhild’s help was absolutely crucial.

  A scrunching noise took their attention to the window, which looked out on the garden. They caught a glimpse of bodies bent in toil with rake and hoe. Noblewomen who had never before done manual work of any kind were going about their allotted tasks in the warm sunshine. There was the faintest whisper of complacence in Mindred’s voice.

  “We are moving forward,” she said. “We had to employ carpenters to build this priory and some masons to erect the chapel but our holy sisters have created the garden out of a wilderness. Our kitchens already cook vegetables that we have grown ourselves and our own fruit trees will yield their harvest in a year or two.” She glanced across at the embroidered portrait, which hung on the wall. “St. Benedict was right. Idleness is truly the enemy of the soul.”

  “Work has its own dignity,” said Gunnhild humbly, “and women may learn its value in the same way as men.”

  “Work and study. It is the perfect life for all.” She indicated the books that lay on the table beside her. “We brought these gifts back from Abbess Aelfgiva. They will enrich our minds and provide spiritual nourishment.”

  “May I see them, Reverend Mother?”

  “Please do.”

  “Our library is expanding,” said Gunnhild, picking up the books one by one in her pudgy fingers to examine them. “These are exceptional gifts. I look forward to being able to peruse these works in detail. They are suitable additions to our stock and will guide the minds of our holy sisters in the right direction. Especially Sister Lewinna.”

  “Sister Lewinna?”

  “I caught her reading Aesop’s Fables again.” “That is no disgrace. I donated the copy myself.” “Sister Lewinna was laughing.”

  “Aesop has a strong sense of humour.”

  “There is no place for laughter here,” said Gunnhild earnestly. “I had to impress that upon Lewinna. She still has much to learn. Aesop was no Christian and his tales of animals may lead a lighter mind astray.”

  Prioress Mindred did not entirely agree but she had no wish to take issue with Sister Gunnhild. The library helped to shape the character of the nuns. Lady Mindred was an educated widow who had presented an English translation of Aesop because she felt its harmless stories embodied eternal truths about the human condition. Gunnhild was a cultured nun who had read the author in the original Greek and found it streaked with a levity she thought unbecoming. It was one small instance of the differences that existed, at a deep and largely unacknowledged level, between the two women.

  There was work to do. During her absence, the prioress had left all the administrative chores to Gunnhild but she now had to take up the reins herself. It was time to go through the priory account book, a volume of such functional solemnity that it was in no danger of provoking Aesopian amusement. As Gunnhild took her place at the table beside her prioress, she touched on a subject that had caused her deep anxiety.

  “Sister Tec
la has told me of your ordeal,” she said. “It was most unfortunate.”

  “The world is not safe when holy nuns can be set upon by a band of

  robbers. I beg of you not to stir from here again unless it be with a larger escort.”

  “The journey was imperative, Sister Gunnhild.” “I appreciate that.”

  “And we did have the strong arm of St. Oswald to guard us on our way home. He saved our lives.” “God bless the noble saint!” “Honest men came to our rescue.” “So I heard from Sister Tecla.”

  “They were kind and considerate to us,” said Mindred as she recalled me commissioners. “I am a true Saxon with a natural fear of Norman soldiers but nobody could have offered us finer protection or more congenial company.”

  “Perhaps too congenial.” “Why do you say that?”

  “Out of concern for Sister Tecla.” Gunnhild voiced her criticism in tones of complete humility. “It is not for me to question your decisions, Reverend Mother, because my duty is to obey at all times and I do so willingly. When these men came to your aid, it was natural for you to express your thanks and accept their protection. But Sister Tecla should not have been exposed to conversation with them. She took the veil to avoid the world of men and she was distressed by the closeness of their questioning.”

  “She did not complain to me.”

  “Sister Tecla preferred to suffer in silence.” “Is that what she told you, Sister Gunnhild?”

  “Not in so many words,” admitted the other, “but that is what has emerged. I saw the young man who brought you back to the priory. He troubled her. I sensed it. He helped her down from her horse too readily.”

  “Only after he had helped me,” said the prioress. “His name is Gervase Bret and he was charming.”

  The word slipped out before she could stop it and it brought a momentary flash of disgust into Gunnhild’s eyes.

  “Charming?” she repeated dully.

  It sounded like an obscenity on her lips and had even less place in a convent than a copy of Aesop’s Fables. Yet another hidden difference between the two of them had briefly surfaced. Although Mindred had committed herself totally to the religious life, she had not yet expunged all traces of her former existence. One word had proved that. She could still take pleasure in male company and find the attraction of a young man worth an admiring comment. It was inappropriate and she regretted it at once. To cover her embarrassment, she opened the account book and pretended to read through the latest entries.

  Sister Gunnhild was able to apply some gentle pressure. “We must do all we can to help Sister Tecla over this.”

  “I will pray with her.”

  “It may take more man prayer, Reverend Mother.’’

  Prioress Mindred could see what she was being asked. Sister Gunnhild was in an attitude of submission but she was still applying tender force. Her exaggerated humility could be a strong weapon and the prioress was for once unable to deflect it by asserting her own authority. A silent battle of power went on for a couple of minutes before Mindred eventually capitulated.

  “Very well,” she said. “You must look after her.”

  Sister Gunnhild was content.

  Ralph Delchard took a cheerfully irreverent view of those in ecclesiastical office and it made his relationship with men like Canon Hubert one of fluctuating tensions. As a Norman soldier whose life had been shaped by victory on the field of battle, he also had a haughty dis-regard for the conquered Saxons and considered their language, customs, and appearance to be markedly inferior to those of his own nation. Oslac the Priest disarmed him completely. Here was an ecclesiastic whom it was impossible to deride and a Saxon whom it was difficult to dislike. Ralph could not but admire the man’s bearing, forthright manner, and ability to look anyone in the eye. He had none of the awkward deference or dumb insolence of his compatriots. Conquest had not subdued him in any way. It had simply altered the circumstances in which he lived. Oslac had the kind of flinthard integrity that no invading army could destroy.

  They walked the short distance from the shire hall to the Church of All Souls’ and found the priest alone in his vestry. The town reeve had told them that the body of Guy FitzCorbucion lay in the mortuary chapel. It was enough to take Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret there in search of information about the murder. They introduced themselves to Oslac and were given a cordial welcome. Although he had not been at the meeting, the priest seemed to know everything that had transpired in the shire hall that afternoon.

  “You have given the people of Maldon some hope,” he said affably. “That is a rare commodity in this town.”

  “We are here to dispense justice,” said Ralph.

  “That, too, has been in short supply of late.” He waved them to the bench, which stood against the wall in the little vestry, then waited till they were seated. “How may I help you?” he offered.

  “We are interested in this case of murder,” said Ralph.

  “So is the whole town, my lord. Guy FitzCorbucion was a forceful young man. He made his presence felt in every way. His death has set tongues wagging all over Maldon.”

  “With delight, from what I hear.” “That is not for me to say.”

  “Is the name of the murderer known?” “Not for certain, my lord.”

  “Jocelyn FitzCorbucion seemed to think it was.”

  “He was referring to the boy.” “What boy?”

  “Wistan, son of Algar.” Oslac rested himself against the edge of the table and chose his words with care. “You will not need to be told that Blackwater Hall is the manor house of Hamo FitzCorbucion. He rules his demesne with firmness and his elder son, Guy, did like-wise in his absence. One of the slaves on the estate was stricken with the ague. I myself was called to Algar and tried to arrest his fever with medicines but his condition was too serious. A sick man is unable to work. He was reported to Guy FitzCorbucion.”

  “Who punished him for laziness,” guessed Ralph.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Oslac. “I was not there myself so I have only the word of eyewitnesses but they all vouch the same. The order was given to tie Algar up so that he could be whipped. His diseased old body would have been cut to shreds. He tried to fight back but Guy was far too strong for him. Algar died.”

  “Died-or was murdered?”

  “The steward assured me that it was an accident.”

  “He would,” said Ralph. “I believe I met the fellow at the shire hall and set him down for a liar on sight. How many other accidents have there been at Blackwater Hall?”

  “This is not the first, my lord.”

  Ralph’s ire was roused. “Guy FitzCorbucion intended to murder this wretch with the end of a whip but did it with his own hands instead. How does it sound to you, Gervase?”

  “It could be argued that he killed in self-defence.”

  “A fit young man against a fever-ridden slave?” Ralph turned to

  Oslac again. “Was there no cure for his ague?”

  “None, my lord. He would have died within a week.”

  “But Guy helped him on his way,” he smacked his thigh in disgust. “This is brave work indeed! I have no sympathy for a slave who attacks a master. Underlings must know their place. But this is something of a different order. I would not treat a dog the way that Guy treated this poor man.”

  “You mentioned a son,” recalled Gervase. “Wistan. A boy of fifteen.”

  “Was he present?”

  “Yes,” said Oslac with a sigh. “Wistan was forced to witness it all. Such a tragedy was bound to etch itself deeply in his young mind and foster great bitterness. He was vengeful, that cannot be denied. I counselled acceptance of what had happened but he would not hear me. Wistan is a strong-willed boy. He vowed to kill Guy FitzCorbucion.”

  “And did he?” asked Gervase. “I honestly cannot say.”

  “What does your instinct tell you?” said Ralph.

  “No,” decided the priest without hesitation. “Wistan is innocent.” “Guilty of th
e wish but innocent of the deed.”

  “Yes, my lord.” He gave a shrug. “But I could be wrong.”

  Ralph leaned back and appraised the man. Oslac had been careful not to take sides. The death of Guy FitzCorbucion was being welcomed as a boon by almost every other Saxon in the town, but the priest had room in his heart both for the slave whom he had buried a week earlier and for the young Norman who had killed him and who now lay on the stone slab in his mortuary. There was nothing sanc-timonious about Oslac the Priest. He was a practical Christian who served all his parishioners with undiscriminating care. Nor were his duties confined to the church itself. He not only conducted regular services in Latin and preached on occasion to his congregation, but he also tended the sick, relieved the poor, heard confession, arbi-trated in disputes between neighbours, and acted as a reassuring wall against common fears of hell and damnation. Oslac was a friend, guide, and-until the Conquest robbed him of his land-a fellow farmer to the whole community. He refused to sit in judgement, even on such an incorrigible sinner as Guy FitzCorbucion.

  “I have a favour to ask of you,” said Ralph, getting to his feet. “May

  we view the body?”

  “I fear not, my lord.”

  “It would take no more than a minute.”

  “It is not a favour I am in a position to grant,” said Oslac. “You would need the permission of the family before you could be allowed into the mortuary.”

  “They would certainly refuse.” “Without question.”

  Ralph changed his tack. “This is important to us. It may have serious implications for our work here in Maldon. We would appreciate your help.” He gave a confiding smile. “The family would not have to know about it.”

  “I would know, my lord,” said Oslac firmly. “That is why I may not permit it. I guard that body as a sacred trust.”

  “We have no right whatsoever to trespass on that,” conceded Gervase in a conciliatory tone. “But you have seen the body, Father Oslac, and that may be enough.”

  “In what way?”