The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2)

by Edward Marston

  As she opened her eyes, it was there. Matilda came out of her sleep and into a waking nightmare because the sight brought nothing but further apprehension. She rubbed at her eyes, then peered through the window once more to make sure that it was not an illusion. But it was still there. She had recognised it at once. The ship was long and narrow with a single, large sail that was filled by the gusting wind. Its prow was high, its draught shallow, and it was cutting through the dark water with eager purpose. The captain was navigating his way around Northey Island and setting a course for the harbour. They were still a long way from Blackwater Hall but Matilda knew whom the ship carried.

  Hamo FitzCorbucion had come home.

  Chapter Five

  THE DAY BEGAN EARLY AT CHAMPENEY HALL. GUESTS OF SUCH STANDING AND IN such number imposed considerable extra burdens and the servants were up before dawn to clean the house, prepare the table, and serve the breakfast. The visitors, too, were soon out of their beds to wash themselves before sitting down to a meal of frumenty, enriched with egg yolks and a flavouring of dried saffron, and watered ale. Canon Hubert had recovered completely from his overindulgence the previous evening and attacked his food with his customary relish, but Brother Simon, stricken with guilt at his enjoyment of the banquet, and fearing that it was the first sign of moral decay, sat in his place like a repentant sinner and refused even to slake his thirst with water. The two of them went off for an hour of prayer and contemplation before they addressed their minds to the temporal commitments that lay ahead of them.

  Gervase Bret returned to the chamber, which he shared with Ralph, so that he could once again study the documents around which all their deliberations in the shire hall would revolve. It was laborious but highly rewarding work. Under his expert scrutiny, simple facts about property ownership yielded a complex story of fraud, misappropriation, and violent seizure. A bewildering set of figures gave him a clear picture in his mind of the geography of the whole area. Bare names like Tovild the Haunted and Reginald the Gross helped to people the landscape and define the character of Maldon. The first commissioners had been regarded with the obedient derision that greeted all royal tax collectors but the returns that they had brought to the Treasury in Winchester, and that were set down in abbreviated Latin, were an ornate tapestry of English life to the discerning eye of a man like Gervase.

  Ralph Delchard had never heard of Chapter Forty-eight of the Rule of St. Benedict and he would have been astounded to learn that one of his own beliefs had monastic authority, but he was convinced that idleness was bad for the body and soul of his knights. It was important to keep them alert and well disciplined at all times. If the threatened invasion of the Danes had, in fact, taken place, Ralph would have been called to lead his knights into battle and their military worth would have been put to the test. He was determined that his men would not be found wanting in any emergency. Ralph had planned to take them on an invigorating gallop before putting them through some training exercises with sword and lance. Gilbert Champeney's invitation to go hawking was thus particularly welcome because it enabled Ralph to combine a ride with his men and an hour's sport.

  “What have we caught so far?” he asked.

  “Duck, pigeon, and pheasant,” said Gilbert, glancing at the game bag, which his servant carried. “They will make fine dishes during your stay with us. Canon Hubert tells me he is partial to hare as well.”

  “Hubert will eat anything that moves,” said Ralph.

  “My cook has a magical touch with hares.”

  “I prefer rabbit. I wish King William would bring more of them over from Normandy. They breed well and are easier to catch.” Ralph winked at him. “Hubert gobbled them up by the dozen when he was serving the Lord in Bec.”

  “We must keep the Church happy.”

  They had ridden a few miles from the manor house and were on the edge of a small wood. Miles Champeney had joined them and his falcon was the most deadly of all the hunting birds. Ralph watched the young man as he un-hooded the creature yet again and flicked his arm so that the falcon left its leather perch and shot into the sky. It did not need to fly very far. Hovering above a clearing in the wood, it saw something that sharpened its instinct and concentrated all its fierce attention. The steady beat of its wings suddenly changed, its neck stretched forward, and it hurtled towards the ground with frantic speed. Through a cluster of trees, Ralph was just able to pick out a glimpse of its quarry as talons of steel sank into frenzied fur. .

  “I think you may have found your hare, Gilbert.” .

  “Give the credit to my son.” .

  “He has a rare talent for hawking.” .

  “Hawking, hunting, and chasing women.” Ralph sighed with nostalgia. “The bounty of youth!” .

  “And the consolation of old age.” .

  Ralph chortled in appreciation. When the sport was over, the hunting party set off in the direction of Champeney Hall with a full game bag. Partridge and squirrel had also been killed, although the latter was discarded as unsuitable for the larder. Under their captain, the seven knights rode off hard and left the rest of the company to return at a more sedate pace. Ralph rode between father and son. Gervase had told him what he had learned about Miles Champeney and his friend was fascinated to know more. He tried to disguise his enquiries behind a chuckling jocularity. .

  “You are a true falconer, Miles,” he observed. .

  “I like the sport.” .

  “Every man should have a hawk and hounds,” said Ralph. “If I were back on my estate in Hampshire, I would be out hunting right now. The King's business has robbed me of that delight. I am grateful that I have been able to snatch this hour of pleasure with you and your father.” .

  “We mean to make you enjoy your stay,” said the genial Gilbert. “Is that not so, Miles?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Guests from the King are always welcome.”

  “We have been blessed by our host,” said Ralph. “You keep a splendid house, Gilbert, and you know how to take the most out of this life of ours.”

  “I love Maldon. It is the next best thing to Heaven.”

  “Your son may not agree.”

  “Why?” asked Miles.

  “Because the town has less to offer a sprightly young man like yourself,” said Ralph. “Maldon is full of Saxon women and celibate nuns. They are like the squirrel that your falcon caught—pretty to look at but hardly fit for the larder. How can you practise the arts of dalliance without a supply of fair maids?”

  “We do not lack beautiful women, my lord,” said Miles with a defen- sive note. “They are here in plenty.”

  “I have not seen them,” said Ralph. “They must be hiding behind their doors in the town or behind their veils at the priory.” He paused for a moment then gave his companion a knowing nudge. “But you are right, Miles. There must be some ladies hereabouts who can make a man's blood race. He found them, after all.”

  “He?”

  “Guy FitzCorbucion.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it is what everybody else says,” explained Ralph. “Your father among them. Guy was a ladies' man. He had a reputation for liberality and spread his love around.”

  “Guy was as lecherous as a monkey,” agreed Gilbert.

  “Then the town must be full of lovely ladies. Unless he was the kind of man to take his pleasures with servant-girls and other poor wretches who were afraid to disobey him.” He looked across at Miles. “What do you think? I know we should not speak ill of the dead but then I do not hold carnal desire to be a sin, so it is no stain on his character. What was Guy really like, Miles?”

  “You must ask of others, my lord.”

  “But I am told you knew him well.”

  “Too well.”

  Miles Champeney gave a nod of farewell then nudged his horse into a trot until he caught up to the servant who was carrying the wooden pole on which all of the hawks were perched and tethered. Ralph was disappointed. H
e had learned no more from him than Gervase. As before, it was Gilbert who tried to account for his son's behaviour.

  “It is a difficult time for Miles,” he explained. “He is not usually as uncivil as this. There is much on his mind and it has made him withdraw into himself. Guy's murder was bound to cause him anxiety.”

  “Anxiety?”

  “Yes, Ralph. He may be called to give evidence.”

  “Called? By whom?”

  “The sheriff and his officers.”

  “But Miles is not involved in the killing.”

  “They will want to make sure of that.”

  “The murderer has already been named,” said Ralph. “A boy called Wistan whose father was struck down by Guy. They are combing the area now for the lad.”

  “Yes,” said Gilbert, “and if they catch him and get a confession out of him, nobody will be more relieved than Miles. But I am not at all sure that this Wistan is the culprit. How could he get close enough to Guy to perpetrate such a foul crime? And what could a boy do against a man who was bigger, stronger, and properly armed?”

  “Oslac the Priest thinks that Wistan is innocent.”

  “I agree with Oslac.”

  “Then let us assume he is right.”

  “If the boy did not do the deed …”

  “Someone else did.”

  “In which case, they will need to question Miles.”

  “But why?” said Ralph. “Your son is no killer. Why on earth should the sheriff wish to bother him in any way?”

  “Because of a certain incident.”

  “Yes. Gervase told me about the fight.”

  “Did he tell you what caused it?”

  “What often causes fights between young men,” said Ralph with easy cynicism. “A young woman.”

  “Guy's sister. Matilda.”

  “Your son wishes to marry her.”

  “Madness!” .

  “And Matilda seems to requite his love.”

  “Chaos! It breaks my old heart, Ralph.”

  “But you have still not told me why the sheriff and his officers may come looking for Miles. What has he done?”

  “When they came to blows,” explained Gilbert, “there were witnesses. They heard what Guy said and they will be duty bound to report it. Miles did not go in search of trouble that day. He went— against my advice—to see Matilda but her brother caught them together. An argument started and a fight developed. They had to be pulled apart.” .

  “What was it that Guy said?”

  “He vowed that Miles would never marry his sister.”

  “Were those his exact words?”

  “No,” admitted Gilbert. “What he actually said to my son was ‘As long as I live, you will never come near Matilda. I would die sooner than let you touch her.’ Now do you see why Miles is so vexed? He had the best reason of all to kill Guy FitzCorbucion.”

  They were waiting for him at the quayside and he could read the disaster in their faces. As soon as the ship was sighted from the house, Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and the steward mounted their horses and rode to the harbour to meet it. They could see Hamo in the prow of the ship, waving happily to them and shouting something that was lost in the wind. When he got close enough to see their dour expressions, the waving stopped and the shouting was directed at the captain as Hamo vainly demanded greater speed from the craft. A successful visit to Coutances and a relatively calm voyage back across the channel had put him in a buoyant mood but it turned to black anger before he even set foot again on English soil. Bad tidings awaited him and Guy's absence alerted him. The favourite son should certainly have been there to meet the returning father. As the stout bulwark rubbed the quayside in greeting, Hamo jumped nimbly ashore before the first rope had even been tied to steady the ship.

  There was no point in delaying the news until they were in a more private place. Hamo FitzCorbucion demanded to know the truth there and then. Jocelyn told him. His father was completely dazed. He refused to believe what he had heard. His elder son, who modelled himself so closely on Hamo, who had his energy, his ambition, and his ruthlessness, who shared his vision in every way, and who stood to inherit Blackwater Hall in the fullness of time, this son, Guy, who had been so strong and unquenchable, was now lying dead. Killed by the son of a slave. It was quite inconceivable. All his love and his hope had been placed on Guy. His wife was now dead, his other son less worthy, his daughter less important, so it was Guy who bore the blessing of his pride and affection.

  Hamo FitzCorbucion was a stocky man of moderate height with the narrow, hook-nosed face of a predator and yellow eyes that glared from beneath a mop of black hair. As he fought to accept and understand the dreadful news, his head dropped, his shoulders hunched, and his whole body sagged, but he did not stay like that for long. As incredulity gave way to pain, it was in turn replaced by a cold rage that started deep inside him and slowly coursed through his entire being until he was simply pulsing with fury. “Where is he?” Hamo asked.

  “At the mortuary,” said Jocelyn.

  “Take me to him.”

  “You need time to prepare yourself first.”

  “Take me to him.”

  “Father, there's something I've not told you about—”.

  “I've heard enough!” howled Hamo, grabbing him by the throat and shaking him violently. “God's wounds, Jocelyn! You say that Guy is dead. You tell me my son has been murdered. Take me to him now! ”

  Jocelyn abandoned all hope of further explanation and led his father to the horse, which they had brought for him. All three of them were soon cantering towards the hill. They went past the priory, past the Church of St. Peter's, and up to the dark shape of the Church of All Souls'. Oslac was taking confession but Hamo's urgency brooked no delay and he raised his voice to such a pitch of anger inside the nave that the priest had to break off and calm him down. A sinful parishioner was sent on his way only half-shriven so that the lord of the manor of Blackwater could be conducted to the mortuary to view the remains of his son.

  Oslac unlocked the heavy door and led the way into the dark, dank, little chamber, which was filled with the stench of decay. Herbs and fresh rushes had been placed around the slab to freshen the atmosphere but they were unable to compete with the reek of rotting flesh. Hamo retched.

  “Dear God in heaven!” he exclaimed.

  Oslac steadied him with an arm and Jocelyn moved in to support him as well but he soon shook them both away. He needed no help with a father's duty. The body lay on the cold slab beneath a thin shroud. Candles burned at its head and feet. Oslac had washed the corpse and tended its wounds but blood and filth still oozed out to stain the material. Hamo was overwhelmed with nausea and contempt. A son who had come into the world to such wealth and advantage was ending it in a fetid cavern that smelled of his own corruption. He reached forward to take the edge of the shroud and peeled it back to reveal the face. Guy FitzCorbucion did not rest in peace. His face was contorted with pain and his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. Hamo let out a low moan and swayed to and fro.

  When he steadied himself, he tried to pull back the shroud even further but Oslac the Priest stopped him with gentle firmness.

  “You have seen enough, my lord,” he suggested.

  “Take your hand from me,” hissed the other.

  “Guy was most cruelly slain.”

  “I wish to see my son.”

  Oslac gave a little bow and stepped away. Hamo drew back the material and saw the worst. The two candles were throwing an uncertain light and much of the horror was lost in the shadows but Hamo saw enough to appall him even more. Deep gashes covered the muscular torso and the most hideous mutilation had been practised. With a cry of anguish, Hamo pulled the shroud back over the corpse to hide its shame and stormed out of the mortuary towards his horse.

  Jocelyn and Fulk could hardly keep up with him.

  “Has the murderer been caught yet!” he screamed.

  “He soon will be, Father.”

 
“Where is he?”

  “The search continued at first light.”

  “Why haven't you found him, you idiot!”

  “It is only a question of time.”

  “I want him!” growled Hamo.

  “We have dozens of men out looking,” said the steward.

  “Yes,” said Jocelyn. “The sheriff and his officers will be here to help in a couple of days.”

  “I need no sheriff,” sneered Hamo. “I'll deal with the killer my way. I want him now. I'll find that boy if I have to search every corner of the shire for him myself. And when I get my hands on him, I'll show him what FitzCorbucion vengeance is like.” He was leaping into the saddle now. “I'll pull off his ears. I'll gouge out his eyes. I'll stuff his pizzle down his throat.” He looked back at the morgue. “Nobody does that to my son. I'll cut the devil into tiny strips and feed them to the ravens!”

  Hamo FitzCorbucion galloped off to Blackwater Hall

  The commissioners arrived at the shire hall well before the appointed hour so that they could organise themselves properly for what promised to be a long and exacting day. They were due to hear a series of witnesses whose land had been taken away in a variety of ways by a grasping baron. Their predecessors had identified the abuse without being able to do anything about it and it was up to the second team of royal officers to rectify this situation. The town reeve had prepared everything for them and had even set out some jugs of wine and a plate of honey cakes in case they needed refreshment. Revived by their early-morning exercise, all eight knights were stationed at the rear of the hall. After discussing the broad lines of their approach, the commissioners took their places behind the table as before and set the documentary evidence in front of them. Jostling for position started immediately.

  “Introduce me and stand aside,” said Canon Hubert with an imperious flick of the hand. “I will take charge of the business of the day.”