The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2)

by Edward Marston

  “What is a miserable servant between friends?” he said with a grim chuckle. “Take the rogue. He is no use to me now except to provide sport.”

  “Give me a price.”

  “You pay it with that satchel.”

  He tried to grab it but Gilbert drew it back and shook his head. Hamo turned to signal to Fulk once more and the steward went into the building. He soon returned with the servant who was walking stiffly after his confinement and blinking in the glare of the sun. Both prisoners were now brought down into the courtyard by the guards and another voice joined in the bargaining.

  “Miles! You're safe! Thank God!”

  Matilda was watching from her window. As her beloved moved away from the building, she caught sight of him for the first time and screamed her anguish and her relief. He lifted his bound hands in a gallant wave.

  “I'll come back for you, Matilda!”

  “No, you won't!” shouted Gilbert.

  “Help me, Miles! They've locked me in!”

  “Silence that noise!” roared Hamo.

  The guard entered the chamber above them and a protesting Matilda was dragged away from the window. When Miles added his own protests and tried to lurch towards the house, his father restrained him and gave him a stark choice.

  “Me or her,” he said crisply. “Which is it to be, Miles? Come with me and be free. Or stay here with Matilda and rot in the dungeon. Which is it going to be?”

  Miles looked despairingly at the empty window. Then he lowered his head in submission. Only if he were released would he have any hope of saving Matilda. He had to bow to the force of circumstances.

  “Now it is my turn,” said Hamo gruffly. “You have your son and you have my servant, Gilbert. Give me my documents.”

  With a show of reluctance, Gilbert handed them to him. Jocelyn stepped forward again but his father waved turn aside and instead passed the satchel to Fulk. The steward was swift in his appraisal. Taking everything out, he read the list of charges, then checked to see that he had the documents that related to each of those accusations. Jocelyn, meanwhile, was livid at this public rebuff. His expertise was being discarded in favour of the steward's opinion. Hamo's blackmail had struck a fatal blow at the commissioners and it had also undermined his son.

  “They are all there,” said Gilbert shamefacedly.

  “What took you so long?” asked Hamo. “Guilt?”

  “Those people are my guests—my friends!”

  “Not any more.”

  “You forced me to steal from them.”

  “And you did just that,” agreed Hamo. “Bear that in mind, Gilbert. You are a thief. If I showed this satchel to the commissioners and told them who gave it to me, they would call the sheriff and have you arrested.”

  Gilbert lowered his head in disgust and Hamo was happy. He had made his enemy do something that caused him the greatest pain of all. A generous host had been forced to rob and betray his distinguished guests. Gilbert had been humiliated and his son had been taught a painful lesson. The Champeneys would not cause any more trouble at Blackwater Hall. Pulling a dagger from its scabbard, Hamo cut the rope that bound the prisoner's hands.

  “Get off my land!” he said to Miles. “If you come within a mile of my daughter again, nothing will save you.” He glared at the servant. “Take this offal with you! I want no traitors under my roof!”

  Gilbert mounted his horse while Miles and the servant pulled themselves up into the saddles of the two horses which had been brought from Champeney Hall during the night. Joined by the two soldiers, they rode abjectly away. Gilbert had rescued his son and the servant but Hamo FitzCorbucion still felt that he had the best of the bargain. His mocking laughter pursued them. Fulk joined in his scornful mirth but Jocelyn remained morose and silent. Everybody seemed to have gained something from the transaction except him.

  Oslac the Priest celebrated Mass at the priory with the silver chalice and the paten. Prioress Mindred and her seven holy sisters received Communion in the tiny chapel and were greatly sustained. The prioress herself knelt in an attitude of total self-abnegation. Sister Gunnhild felt a quiet exultation as she took the wafer of unleavened bread upon her tongue. Sister Lewinna expunged all thought of Aesop and brought her utmost concentration to the ceremony. Sister Tecla listened to the Latin words and translated them into a more familiar and comforting language.

  “The Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ's blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”

  Oslac gave her the chalice and she peered at her reflection in the dark red wine before sipping it. When he tried to take the chalice from her so that he could wipe its rim with a cloth and hand it to the next person, she kept her fingers locked tightly around its base. The priest put a hand on the top of her head in blessing, then detached the cup very gently from her grip. Sister Tecla did not try to resist his pull. She simply folded her hands in prayer but kept her eyes on the chalice as it made its way along the line of communicants.

  “What else has happened, Father Oslac?”

  “Peter de Valognes is in the town, my lady prioress.”

  “Has he joined the hunt for the boy?”

  “He is conducting his own investigations into the murder. My lord, Hamo, is not pleased to have him here but a sheriff has duties that cannot be shirked.”

  “What else?”

  Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with Oslac. Like the two other priests who came to celebrate Mass, he was her window on the town of Maldon and she enjoyed the chance to gaze through it and keep abreast of affairs in the wider community. Although her vocation encouraged her to look inwards, she had particular reason to look outwards as well. When Oslac hesitated, she searched his face with shrewd eyes.

  “What else?” she repeated. “I can see that you have something important to tell me and I would like to know what it is. Do not try to soften the tidings because we are friends. Speak bluntly. You have come to warn me, I think.”

  “Yes, my lady prioress.”

  “The royal commissioners?”

  “They are astute men.”

  “What have they found out?”

  “Enough to make them extremely curious.”

  “Will they come here?”

  “In time, they may. You must be ready for them.”

  “I am under no obligation to receive them,” she said with a lift of her chin. “They have no right to intrude here. I will invoke the privileges of my station. They will be turned away.”

  “That would only increase their suspicion.”

  “How, then, may we allay it?”

  “I do not know, my lady prioress,” he admitted. “I seek only to alert you. These men are like terriers. They will not give up their search. They will find their way here.”

  Prioress Mindred felt a mild sensation of fear but she mastered it at once and drew herself up into a posture of dignity. “I am not ashamed of anything I have done,” she said proudly. “If I were in that position again, I would act in precisely the same way. I made a stand for Christian love and righteousness. God himself guided me.”

  Oslac gave a nod of acquiescence but remained anxious.

  “We may need His guidance even more now,” he said.

  Gervase Bret sat at the table where the documents still lay scattered. Brother Simon had used up nearly all the fresh parchment, but his colleague found one small scroll on which he could write and draw. He cudgelled his brain for an hour or more with only moderate success. When Ralph came sweeping into the hall, Gervase was still crouched over his conundrum.

  “They have arrived back!” announced Ralph.

  “Miles is safely returned?”

  “He is returned, I know that, but his safety is very much in question. Gilbert is lashing him even now. Our kindly host has a most blistering tongue.”

  “But the exchange was effected?”

  “It worked like a cha
rm,” said Ralph. “Hamo took the documents and released both Miles and that servant. Gilbert took me aside to tell me how delighted he was. He has not told his son that we were involved in the deception and that the documents are forgeries. Miles still believes that his reckless behaviour turned his father into a thief.” He walked to the table and began to sift idly through the documents. “It will not hurt to maintain that illusion for a short while. Gilbert wants to make him suffer the pangs of remorse before he tells him the truth.”

  “What of Matilda FitzCorbucion?”

  “She is still under lock and key.”

  “Will not Miles try to rescue her once again?”

  “He will not get the chance. Gilbert will hover over him like a falcon and swoop at the first sign of movement.” Ralph heaved a sigh. “In some ways, it is a pity.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he would have a much better chance now.”

  “Of reaching Matilda?”

  “Yes,” explained Ralph. “They would never expect a second attempt. Last time they were waiting for Miles and he was a sitting target. They are off guard now and the girl will be watched with less vigilance. In addition to that, Miles has a valuable accomplice.”

  “Accomplice?”

  “The servant who was released with him. That man would have died in Hamo's dungeon if Gilbert's kind heart had not pried him loose. He will be more than happy to strike back at his old master.”

  “And he knows the inner workings of the household.”

  “Exactly, Gervase. If I were the lover and she were my lady, I'd have Matilda out of Blackwater Hall within a day.”

  “How?”

  “There is always a way. Every problem has a solution.”

  “This one does not!” said Gervase, looking down at the parchment in front of him. “I have been at it since you left me here and I am none the wiser.”

  “Are you still struggling with Tovild's riddle?”

  “Yes. I have remembered all I can and set it down.”

  “Show me.” Ralph looked over his shoulder at the paper. “What are these weird creatures?”

  “They are drawings of the things Tovild mentioned.”

  He pointed a finger. “Is this a swallow?”

  “It is supposed to be an eagle.”

  “This one looks like a bullock.”

  “It is a goat, Ralph.”

  “Now, this one I do recognise,” said Ralph, jabbing his finger at another sketch. “It is a mouse.”

  “A dog.”

  “I can see why you are in difficulty, Gervase.”

  “This is all that I can recall of the riddle,” admitted Gervase, indicating each drawing as he spoke. “Dog, goat, and grey eagle. Then goose, hawk, and gull. He also mentioned a war-bird but I am not sure what he meant.”

  “What are these letters?’ asked Ralph, pointing to them.

  “Another clue. He said they formed the name.”

  “G,A,R,I. An Anglo-Saxon name? Gari?”

  “No, there were other letters but these are the only ones of which I am certain. I was playing around with others when you came in just now.”

  “G,A,R,I …”

  “Gar is a Saxon word,” said Gervase. “It means spear.”

  “That would point to Tovild himself as the killer.”

  “How would a spear sing like a bird?”

  “When it whistles through the air.”

  “How would it produce the noise of a goose?”

  “When it is thrust through the body of an enemy,” said Ralph. “He will squawk just like a goose, I can assure you.”

  “There were two or three other letters. Was H one of them?”

  “Could it give us another word?”

  “Garholt, perhaps. If we lost the I.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Spear-shaft.”

  “That weapon again. It must be Tovild himself.”

  “He certainly sings the song of gull.”

  “And he is an old goat who can bark like a dog.”

  “No, Ralph,” said Gervase, writing the letters in a different order with gaps between them. “Raig? Argi? Grai? They are meaningless.”

  “Try that H once more. Change the letters round.”

  “Harig … gahir … rihag … ?”

  “What else did Tovild the Haunted say? Apart from the riddle? The clue we are missing may lie elsewhere.”

  “I do not think so. I have been over it time and again. Tovild said that the raven was killed in the marshes. The name I want is locked in the riddle.”

  “Who would kill a raven?”

  “Anyone who farms the land.”

  “Someone on the Blackwater demesne?”

  Gervase stared hard at the letters on the paper, then back at the drawings. He thought of Tovild the Haunted and of the glee with which he had told his riddles. A grey eagle. A goose, a hawk, a gull. A war-bird. And was there not also a mention of a kite? He dipped his quill into the inkwell and scribbled some new letters before sitting back with a shout of triumph.

  “I have solved the riddle!”

  “How?”

  “Who would kill a raven?”

  “That was my question.”

  “I have the answer, Ralph. Another bird.”

  “A bird?”

  “If I put an O with these letters, what do I get?”

  “God knows!”

  “Higora!”

  “Who?”

  “Higora!” Gervase thrust the paper at him. “Take a look. The letters all fit. That must be right. Higora! He has given us the name of our killer, Ralph.”

  “And where do we find this Higora?”

  “With the rest of its kind.”

  “Stop it!” yelled Ralph. “You've solved one riddle. Do not couch the answer in yet another one.”

  “Higora is the Saxon word for a magpie or a jay.”

  “Guy FitzCorbucion was killed by a bird?”

  “Tovild was a witness. He told me exactly what he saw in the marshes. A raven killed by a magpie.”

  “Stop talking in riddles. Give me a name!”

  “We must find that for ourselves,” said Gervase, “but at least we know where to search now. Among the magpies.”

  Chapter Nine

  EVEN A SANCTUARY HAD DISADVANTAGES. WISTAN SOON REALISED THAT HE HAD been too hasty to congratulate himself on choosing his new refuge. It guaranteed him safety but only at a price. To begin, he had to stay virtually immobile behind the bushes when the nuns appeared. This was quite often because they used the garden, not only as a place to grow fruit and vegetables, but as their cloister garth. This introduced an unforeseen problem for the boy. The wants of nature eventually had to be satisfied and Wistan suffered the most acute embarrassment when forced to relieve himself—albeit out of sight— in the company of holy sisters. It seemed like an act of desecration and he had the same sensation of guilt that had afflicted him when he stole the sword from Oslac the Priest. Religious people unsettled him. Their goodness was quite beyond his comprehension.

  Boredom also crept up on him. Things that had intrigued him were dulled by constant repetition. The nuns led a strange and apparently contented life but it seemed so barren to him. Why did they not speak to each other? Why did one sit on a bench in meditation while another walked around the perimeter of the garden with her head in a book? Who was the stout nun and why was her face hidden? Who was the graceful sister who had crouched on the ground near him and kissed the earth? Only one of the holy sisters had any spirit about her, but her sudden giggles were immediately suppressed by the stout woman whenever they broke out. Wistan became restive. He found the passivity of the nuns weighing down on him. Northey Island had been a far more dangerous place to hide but it had also been more varied and interesting. There was an excitement in the chase even if he had been the quarry. Maldon Priory was sapping his vitality and taking the edge off his vengeful urge.

  As evening shaded slowly towards night, he found himself w
ishing that he had selected another hiding place. Wistan had entered a forbidden realm, bizarre and stimulating at first, but ultimately a handicap. Holiness distracted him. It made him think twice about what he planned to do and question his right to do it. He needed to get away. Light failed by degrees until the whole garden was dappled with shadow. Wistan was not afraid. Darkness was becoming his natural element now, the only time when he had any freedom of movement. Something else kept fear at bay. He had the sword.

  The implement, which he had stolen from the home of Oslac the Priest, gave him a sense of power and importance. A sword was the most prized weapon of Saxon warriors of old and few men below the rank of thegn had possessed one. The spear was a far more common weapon. Swords reflected status. This one had a broad, two-edged blade that had grown rather blunt but he could sharpen it on a stone when time served. There was a shallow groove down the centre of both sides of the blade to lighten the dead weight of the iron but it was still heavy. The hilt had a grip of wood, bound in leather, and a three-lobed pommel to counterbalance the weight of the blade. The long guard curved downwards. The scabbard consisted of two thin laths of wood covered in leather and protected at the mouth and tip by a metal strip. The inside of the scabbard was lined with fleece.

  Wistan had grabbed the sword and carried it away from the house. Now that it was time to leave, he decided to wear it properly. A thegn would have slung the scabbard on his left hip from a baldric over the right shoulder or on a waist belt. All that Wistan had was a piece of rope knotted around his midriff but the sword could just as easily and as proudly be worn on that. He stood up and tied the scabbard in place before pulling out the sword. It seemed to fit his hand and his purpose completely. Its balance was perfect. Wistan was no longer a runaway slave trying to defend himself with a crude knife. He was a Saxon thegn with a fine sword in his hand and a noble heritage behind him. For a brief moment, the boy was at one with Tovild the Haunted.

  A door opened in the priory and he became a startled animal, dropping to his knees and peering with anxiety through the leaves. A figure was coming towards him across the grass and the graceful movement told him that it was Sister Tecla, but she did not reach his corner of the garden this time. The stout nun came bustling out after her and took her gently by the arm. There was a slight altercation as Sister Tecla pointed in the direction she had wanted to go but the older woman was firm. Tecla's shoulders drooped in resignation. The other nun kissed her tenderly on both cheeks then led her back into the building by the hand.