The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2)

by Edward Marston

  “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 the 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 sanctimonious 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, arbitrated 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?”

  “To begin with, you can tell us the cause of death.”

  “A knife wound through the heart.”

  “In his chest or in his back?”

  “Both. There were fifteen stab wounds in all.”

  “A most thorough assassin,” noted Ralph. “How long had Guy been dead when his body was found?”

  “It is impossible to say with any accuracy.”

  “If you had to make a guess …”

  “Two, maybe three days,” said Oslac. “My work here has made me closely acquainted with death and it has distinctive marks. When a body lies in water for any length of time, a number of things happen to it. First of all—”

  “Omit the details,” interrupted Ralph with a squeamish expression, not wishing to hear about the destructive properties of water. “A time is all we need. Two or three days?”

  “That is what I would estimate.”

  “Who found the body?” said Gervase.

  “Brunloc. A fisherman.”

  “Could we speak to him?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Where could we find him?”

  “Out in his boat, most of the time.”

  “This is work for you, Gervase,” said Ralph quickly. “I will not venture near the sea except by compulsion. I have no love for surging waves.”

  “The sea is over ten miles away, my lord,” said Oslac.

  “Your gulls tell me otherwise.”

  “Meet Brunloc at the Hythe,” suggested the priest. “I can arrange that for you.”

  “We accept that offer with gratitude,” said Gervase. “A moment ago, you told us you did not think that Wistan was the killer of Guy FitzCorbucion.”

  “I also told you that I could be wrong.”

  “Is the boy capable of murder?”

  “Indeed, he is. Wistan felt he had just cause. And he did run away once the corpse was discovered. That brought suspicion down on his head.” Oslac gave it some more thought then reaffirmed his instinct. “But I still feel that this is not his doing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Wistan would strike in anger. A wild assault. And there is clear calculation in this attack.”

  “Calculation?” said Ralph.

  “The body was mutilated.”

  “Fifteen stab wounds, you said.’”

  “There was something else, my lord.”

  “Well?” Ralph saw the man's reluctance and tried to overcome it with a softer tone. “Something else?”

  The priest threw a glance towards the mortuary. “I would not have this voiced abroad,” he insisted.

  “You have our word on that,” promised Gervase.

  “The truth has even been kept from Guy's own sister.”

  “We will not breathe it to a soul,” vowed Ralph.

  “That is vital.” Oslac studied the two men closely until he was sure that he could trust them. They were royal commissioners who had been selected by the Conqueror himself for a complex mission and that said much about their character and their quality. There was also a sense of candour about them, which appealed to the priest. In a town where deceit and prevarication were found at every turn, it was refreshing to meet two people with such a clear-eyed commitment to truth. Oslac knew he could put his faith in them and he lowered his voice before continuing. “When the body was found,” he explained, “it had been stripped of much of its clothing.”

  “What form did the mutilation take?” said Gervase.

  “He was castrated.”

  There was a long and uneasy pause as the visitors absorbed this new intelligence and tried to wonder at its meaning. They plied Oslac with further questions but there was nothing more that he was able or prepared to add. When they pressed him for the names of other possible suspects, he refused to point a finger at anyone. His task was to bring some comfort to the bereaved family and not to indulge in speculation about the identity of the killer. They respected his position and thanked him for the help that he had been able to give. Oslac showed them out and walked through the little cemetery with them. The priory bell began to toll in the distance and it unlocked a memory.

  “You were mentioned in prayers,” he said. “Prioress Mindred and her sisters were intensely grateful for the protection you gave them on their journey. God's blessing was called down upon you.”

  Ralph grinned. “I can think of other ways in which the nuns could have shown their thanks but they may not fall within the rules of the Benedictine Order.”

  “I am certain of it,” said Gervase crisply, then turned to the priest. “You visited the priory?”

  “I do so on a regular basis to take Mass.”

  “Then you know its inner workings.”

  “I know only what they wish me to know,” repl
ied Oslac. “And that is as it should be. A convent of holy sisters is a community that looks inward and needs no interference from outside. They accept me at the priory but they administer it entirely by themselves.”

  “Prioress Mindred seems a capable woman,” said Gervase.

  “Extremely capable.”

  “I was more impressed by Sister Tecla,” opined Ralph. “Even in her nun's attire, she struck me as a most attractive young woman and her voice was bewitching. What makes such a lovely creature as that turn her back on the world?”

  “The call from God.”

  “I wish she had heard my call first.”

  “You must forgive Ralph,” said Gervase quickly. “He is unaccustomed to the meaning of a spiritual life.”

  His colleague beamed. “Sister Tecla must instruct me.”

  “She has other preoccupations,” said Oslac with a smile that showed he had taken no offence. “All ecclesiastical institutions have a special function to perform and the priory is no exception. It fulfills its purpose in the most striking way and I have nothing but praise for the holy sisters. They are all quite remarkable servants of God.”

  “Does that include Sister Gunnhild?” asked Gervase.

  “Sister Gunnhild?”

  “I met her when I arrived,” he said. “The lady was less than friendly to me. Since I helped to escort her prioress and one of the sisters all the way back to Maldon, Sister Gunnhild might at least have shown a token of gratitude.”

  “She thanked you in her prayers,” assured Oslac.

  “That was not the impression I received.”

  “Do not worry about it, Gervase,” said Ralph jovially. “You cannot expect your boyish appeal to win the heart of every woman. Sister Tecla fell in love with you—what more do you want? Forget this Sister Gunnhild.”

  “I simply wished to know more about her,” said Gervase, unhappy at the teasing reference to Tecla. “The lady puzzled me, that is all. Her manner was peculiar.” He turned to the priest. “Can you tell us anything about her?”

  “Gunnhild is a true Christian,” said Oslac.

  “Of Danish stock, by the name.”

  “Indeed, she is, though born and brought up in Maldon.”

  “What did I do that upset her so much?”

  “You share a grievous fault with me, I fear.”

  “With you, Father Oslac?”

  The priest chuckled. “We are both men.”

  “Does she hate the sex so violently?” asked Ralph.

  “No,” said Oslac, “she just considers us irrelevant. A convent is by definition an exclusively female community and Sister Gunnhild sets great store by that.” He put a hand on his chest. “In my case, I have to confess, she has a further cause for disapproval.”

  “What is that?” said Gervase.

  “I am married.”

  Ralph Delchard laughed in surprise and warmed even more to the man. He despised the whole notion of celibacy and was delighted to find that the Church of All Souls' was served by a flesh-and-blood priest with the promptings common to normal human beings. Vows of chastity left a person with the bloodless pallor of a Brother Simon or the porcine sheen of a Canon Hubert Oslac the Priest, by contrast, had a ruddy complexion and a twinkle in his eye, both of which Ralph ascribed to the presence of a woman in his bed at nights. Gervase Bret took even more interest in the news because it mirrored his own intent. It was love of Alys that had made him abandon his novitiate at Eltham Abbey and it was the prospect of marriage to her that gave his life such joy and direction. Gervase was touched by Oslac's readiness to confide in them.

  “You are a bold man,” he said. “Archbishop Lanfranc has attacked clerical marriage.”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc is a monk.”

  “He frowns upon relations with the fairer sex.”

  “The Archbishop of Canterbury is a great man who serves a great king,” said Oslac, “and he has made substantial improvements to the Church since he was appointed. I am more than willing to accept his rulings on almost everything else but I will not divorce my wife because of his frown. My own father was a married priest and I inherited this benefice from him. I am hopeful that my son will take over here from me in due course.” “Your son?” said Ralph. “You have children?”

  “Four.”

  “No wonder Sister Gunnhild dislikes you!” said Gervase.

  They shared a communal laugh. It was time to leave Maldon and ride back to Champeney Hall but the two commissioners were glad that they had taken the trouble to meet Oslac the Priest. His help was invaluable. Their host had showered them with information about the town and its personalities while Gilbert Champeney dealt only in gossip and anecdote. Oslac's comments were at once more interesting and reliable. He lived at the very heart of the community in every sense and was thus more intimately acquainted with its nuances of behaviour. They liked him and resolved to call on him again before they finally departed from Maldon.

  Ralph had been toying with the idea of asking about the origin of Humphrey's nickname but the nature of Guy FitzCorbucion's mutilation had somehow deprived him of that urge. A question that would in any case be improper to a priest had now become severely distasteful as well so Ralph mastered his curiosity. Instead, it was Gervase who sought elucidation.

  “Do you know a man called Tovild?” he asked.

  “I know three or four by that name,” replied Oslac.

  “This one is unusual.”

  “Then you are asking about Tovild the Haunted.”

  Gervase was pleased. “You know him?” “Of course. We all know Tovild the Haunted.”

  “Who is he?”

  “As harmless an old man as you could wish to meet.”

  “But where did he get his name?” asked Ralph. “Put Gervase out of his misery, I beg you, or I will have no respite from his ceaseless prattle about this Tovild the Haunted. Who is this fellow?”

  “And what is it that haunts him?” said Gervase.

  Oslac gazed in the direction of Northey Island.

  “The Battle of Maldon.”

  Dusk encouraged him to move more freely about the island. Wistan had now got through the best part of a second day without detection and it bred even more confidence in him. He was learning to think like a fugitive and to see the folly of trusting in a single hiding place. He needed a variety of cover so that he could shift easily from one burrow to another, then on again to a third or fourth, when they finally came for him. Therefore, Wistan chose a series of locations where thick undergrowth or favourable contours could be used for concealment, and he practised scurrying between them at full pelt. The playful exercise cheered him. Time passed and drained even more colour out of the cloudless sky.

  Two problems vexed him. The first was the possible use of animals to track him down. Like all Norman barons, Hamo FitzCorbucion was immensely fond of hunting and he kept a pack of hounds to help him pursue deer and wild boar. Those dogs could just as easily be turned on a human quarry and Wistan could never kill fifty baying dogs with a knife and a desire for revenge. A tree would give him a degree of safety if he climbed high enough, but the hounds might sniff him out and he would be trapped. His only salvation lay in the River Blackwater and it was to the muddy coastline that he now turned his interest. Water did not bear scent. Hiding places in the shallows or among the reeds would even defeat the delicate nostrils of hunting dogs.

  Wistan's second problem was more serious. A fugitive could not himself be in pursuit of a prey. His lust for vengeance boiled inside him but it would not be satisfied as long as he stayed on Northey Island. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead but Hamo was the head of the family and Wistan had to execute him for his own father's sake. Jocelyn, too, deserved to die because he bore a reviled name and because he stood by and watched Algar being humiliated by Guy. In his swirling rage, Wistan even wanted to destroy Matilda as well so that the entire FitzCorbucion family were obliterated from Blackwater Hall.

  But how was he to do it? He could hardly exp
ect Hamo or Jocelyn to come obligingly onto the island with no soldiers at their back. When they hunted him, they would do so in force and Wistan would be lucky to see—let alone to get within striking distance—of the two men whose deaths he had sworn to bring about. If the ravens of Black-water would not come on their own to him, then he would have to go to them. He had no idea how he could possibly do this without taking unnecessary risks, but a vague plan began to form and it so filled his mind with its daring that it made him unwary. He strolled towards the margin of the water as unguardedly as if he owned the whole island.

  The noise of the spear awoke him at once and he flung himself on his stomach in the reeds. Had he been seen? The soldier was clearly heading in his direction. Wistan cursed himself for being so careless. Two days of freedom had been thrown away in a second's inattention. His knife jumped into his hand but it would be no match for the spear that had been hurled with force into a fallen log. The sound still reverberated in his ears. That same spear could impale him to the ground if he lay there motionless. He had to escape somehow. Pulling his knees forward, he raised himself slowly and peered over the swaying tops of the reeds. It was difficult to see anything in the twilight but he knew the soldier was still there. He could hear the clash of a sword on a shield and a guttural battle cry. Was the man summoning the rest of the hunting party? When would they unleash their attack?

  Wistan was about to take to his heels when he noticed something that stilled his fears. The man was old. He moved slowly. What he put his sword into his belt and tried to pull the spear from the log, he could not at first dislodge the weapon. It took him a couple of minutes of tugging and twisting before the head of the spear consented to part company with the timber and, in doing so, it threw him right off balance. Wistan saw something else. The soldier was not, as he had imagined, in the mailed hauberk of a Norman knight. He wore a long woollen coat, belted at the waist and reaching to mid-thigh. His legs were encased in tight trousers and his shoes were made of leather. The Norman helm that Wistan thought he had seen was, in fact, a conical helmet of iron with a thick nasal. Spear and sword were heavy implements of war and the long oval shield was embossed with a simple design at its centre. Wistan was utterly baffled.