Gilbert himself was a generous and willing host. “My home is yours, sirs,” he said.
“We are indebted to you, my lord,” said Canon Hubert.
“Indebted,” repeated Brother Simon obsequiously.
Looking around, Ralph shrugged. “Why not burn the whole place down and build a proper Norman manor house?”
“Because this is not Normandy,” replied Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “There is no point in destruction for its own sake. Preserve what is worth preserving-that is my belief. Our king follows the same precept. The Saxons had an established legal code so he largely kept it. They had a sound currency so he retained its organisation. They had an excellent system of taxation so he extended it.” The nervous laugh was more of a snigger this time. “And it is that which has brought you all to Maldon. Taxation. Saxon common sense refined by Norman efficiency. Just like my home.”
Gilbert Champeney was a short, bustling, bald-headed man with watery blue eyes and a mobile face. Now well into his fifties, he still had the boyish enthusiasm for any project in which he was engaged and an uncomplicated ability to enjoy his life. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe that he had, like Ralph, fought with the Conqueror at Hastings. Ralph still had the unmistakable stamp of a soldier, but Gilbert seemed too soft and affable ever to have borne arms. Twenty years of living in Essex had infected him with a fondness for the nation he had helped to displace. The visitors were quick to note that his tunic had a Saxon cut to it and that he was in the process of trying to grow a beard.
“You will no doubt be hungry,” he said. “Yes!” replied Ralph.
“Famished,” said Canon Hubert.
“Then I have a treat for you. Although I have kept a Saxon reeve to run my estate and Saxon men to work it, I felt I could not survive without a Norman cook. He is at this moment roasting some steaks of beef on a spit and preparing a sauce with red wine, juice of Seville oranges, and a pinch each of ground black pepper and ginger.”
Hubert’s stomach rumbled in appreciation. “With a sprinkling of cinnamon?” he said hopefully.
“Of course.”
The canon could believe in Heaven once more.
Gilbert first called for servants to conduct the men to their respective chambers so that they could deposit all the baggage that they had brought with them. The soldiers were also shown to their quarters, much more cramped, but adequate for their purposes. Gervase Bret arrived with the other half of the armed escort in time to join his colleagues for the sumptuous meal. He warmed to their host at once. Gilbert Champeney’s hospitality had been sought because he was one of the few Norman magnates in the area who was not involved in their investigation. While others grabbed what they could and defended their illegal acquisitions with lies, forgeries, or open aggression, the
lord of this manor was content with what he possessed. He had a quality that set him apart from other Norman barons. He needed to live in harmony with the Saxon people. Gilbert wanted to be liked.
“How long will you stay in Maldon?” he said.
“For as long as your cook will favour us,” said Hubert as he stuffed boiled cabbage into his mouth. “We had not thought to find such quality in the food.”
“I cannot eat a thing,” said the emaciated Simon. Hubert grunted. “Then you are a fool.”
“Self-denial is a virtue.”
“Well-fed men have more strength to serve God.”
“You have said that indulgence is a sin, Canon Hubert.”
“Yes, Brother Simon,” conceded the other. “But this is not indulgence. To refuse the offer of such a repast is an insult to the kindness of our host.”
“I go along with that,” said Ralph, sipping wine from his cup. “Hubert and I have at last found something about which we can agree.” He turned back to Gilbert. “To answer your question, my lord, we will remain here until we have finished our allotted work. It is quite straightforward.”
“Whom does it mostly concern?” asked Gilbert. “Hamo FitzCorbucion.”
“Then it is not straightforward at all, I fear.”
“Why not?” asked Gervase.
“Hamo has not yet returned from Coutances.”
“Then his elder son must speak for him,” said Ralph. “That, too, presents a slight complication.”
“What is it?”
Gilbert Champeney picked at his teeth and waited till he had their full attention. He enjoyed delivering tidings that would have such an important bearing on the work of the royal commissioners. Another nervous laugh slipped out.
“Guy FitzCorbucion has been murdered.”
“Why are they calling it Domesday Book?” asked Matilda. “That need not trouble you,” said her brother.
“I wish to know, Jocelyn. Tell me.”
“When I have more time.” “It is a simple question.”
“And I will give you a simple answer. In due course.” “Now,” she insisted.
“Matilda …” “Now!”
Jocelyn FitzCorbucion clicked his tongue in irritation. He and the steward were about to leave Blackwater Hall when his sister
intercepted them. Matilda was now standing in the doorway to obstruct their exit. The dove-like softness had been shed in favour of a hard-faced persistence. She was frustrated at being excluded from everything of importance that happened on the estate. It was time for her to find out exactly what was going on. Matilda folded her arms and stuck out a combative chin.
“Well?” she demanded.
The two men exchanged a glance. Jocelyn heaved a sigh. “Explain it to her, Fulk,” he said.
“Very well, my lord.”
The steward was a fleshy man in his thirties with a smirking politeness. He had been employed on the demesne long enough to learn all its dark secrets and he was as adept at enforcing his master’s writ among the villeins and serfs on the estate as he was at dealing with the finer points of the manorial accounts. Fulk was not used to having to answer to a woman. It put the merest hint of annoyance into his voice.
“King William calls it a description of England,” he said, “but it is known as the Domesday Book in the shires because it is like the Last Judgement. These commissioners want to know everything.”
Jocelyn was brusque. “There, Matilda. You have had your explanation. Now, stand aside.” “One moment,” she said. “You are in our way.”
“The Last Judgement will weigh our sins. Is that why you are being arraigned? For some sinful acts?”
“We are not being arraigned,” he said defencively.
“Indeed not,” added Fulk smoothly. “Your brother and I merely attend a meeting at the shire hall this afternoon. The town reeve has summoned all people of consequence in Maldon so that we may hear what these commissioners have to say.” He gestured towards the door. “If you prevent us from leaving, we will be late for the gathering and that might be interpreted as a deliberate affront to them.”
She stood her ground. “Who are these commissioners?’’ “Powerful men with a royal warrant,” said Jocelyn. “Father would keep them waiting.”
“I will handle this my way, Matilda.”
“He’d send a dusty answer to the King himself.” “We have to leave. Please excuse us.”
Jocelyn tried to brush past her to get to the door but she shifted her position to block his way once more.
“Where are these commissioners staying?” she asked. “At Champeney Hall.”
She recoiled slightly at the name and her resistance faded at once. Matilda stepped aside to let them pass and stood pensively in the
open doorway as they went down the stone steps into the courtyard. Jocelyn was angry at having been challenged in that way in front of the steward. For the first time in his entire life, he was in a position of real authority at Blackwater Hall and it was being eroded by a mere woman. He loved his sister and he wanted to help her get over the shock of their brother’s sudden death but he could not tolerate such interference. It weakened his standing. He tried to pa
ss off the incident with a forced laugh.
“Women!” he moaned. “They have to be humoured.”
“Sometimes, my lord.”
“Matilda will not be able to hinder us much longer. When my father returns, he will have a surprise for her.”
“I know.”
“He went to Normandy to arrange a marriage for her. Father will bring back the name of her future husband.”
“She needs a man to control her,” said Fulk.
The steward’s tone was deferential but there was an implied rebuke for Jocelyn in his comment. Fulk was more accustomed to the forcefulness of a Hamo or the arrogance of a Guy. He was not so far impressed by the softer edge of Jocelyn FitzCorbucion. The latter winced inwardly and resolved to show greater firmness.
His opportunity came immediately. Grooms had the horses saddled and waiting for them. As the two men mounted, there was a clatter of hooves and eight knights came cantering into the courtyard on their destriers. They reined in their mounts, who stood in a sweating half circle around Jocelyn.
“Have you caught him yet?” he snarled. “No, my lord,” said the captain.
“Search harder.”
“We have been out since first light.” “Find that boy!”
“Wistan ran off the night before last,” explained the captain. “The lad has strong legs. He could be several miles away by now.”
“Widen the search. I want him hunted down.” “Yes, my lord.”
“Question the other slaves.” “We have done so.”
“They must know where he is.” “All of them deny it.”
“Beat the truth out of them!” ordered Jocelyn, waving a fist. “Take more men and continue the search at once. That boy killed my brother. He will pay dearly for that. Get back out there. Look under every stone in the county until you find him!”
Wistan had chosen his escape route well. They would not expect him to be on the island. Throughout the night, the causeway was submerged by the tide and the dark water would deter anyone without a boat and a knowledge of the currents. A whole day had come and gone without any sign of pursuit. Evidently, they were searching on the mainland for a boy who could run instead of on Northey for one who could swim. Well into a second day in hiding, he began to feel a little safer. The island was large and the population sparse. He had over five hundred acres in which to roam. When his food ran out, he could forage for more. Wistan would live from day to day. Survival was all.
With a vague sense of security came a tattered dignity. He had
deceived them. The son of a slave had outwitted the knights from Blackwater Hall. He could never take them on in direct combat because he was hopelessly outnumbered, but he could wrest some smattering of honour from the contest. Wistan could make his father proud of him from beyond the grave. He remembered why Algar had given him his name and what its significance was at the Battle of Maldon. Wistan was a hero. The Vikings had bided their time at the very place where he himself was now lurking. When they were allowed to cross at low tide by means of the causeway, they came up against the full strength of the Saxon fyrd, the army that had been raised to defend the town. Wistan had been at the forefront of the struggle. He had accounted for three Vikings before he was cut down by the invaders.
Guy FitzCorbucion was an invader and he was dead. The boy felt a warm glow inside him every time he savoured that thought. He wanted to destroy all the ravens of Blackwater. They might catch him in the end but he hoped to take full revenge first. Like the Wistan of old, he intended to fight to the death and take some of the vile invaders with him. His own father had shown him the way. Algar had gone down with a last brave show of spirit. As the boy recalled it now, it buttressed his resolution. He thought about the way that he would best like to kill Hamo FitzCorbucion.
A snuffling sound brought him out of his reverie and he huddled into his hiding place in the long grass. They were searching for him on the island, after all. He could see nothing from his burrow but the sound was slowly getting closer. Wistan grabbed the crude knife that was tucked in his belt. He would have to live up to his namesake sooner than he had anticipated but he was not afraid. Excitement made his heart thud and his temples pound. He held his breath as the snuffling got louder and the grass was trampled. He lay curled in a ball until his adversary was almost upon him and then he unwound like a spring, rising up on his knees and using the knife to jab with vicious force.
He caught the sheep a glancing blow on its shoulder and blood oozed swiftly into its fleece. With a leap in the air and a bleat of pain, it went careering across the field to join the rest of the herd. Wistan was both stunned and relieved. He was sorry to have wounded the animal but glad that he had not been run to earth. There was no sign of a human being but sheep were now grazing all over the area. It was time to find a new hiding place. Gathering his meagre belongings, he crept through the grass with the stealth of a fox. Wistan was the quarry in a murder hunt but that prospect did not trouble him any more. It had started to be exhilarating.
The shire hall occupied a prime position near the junction of Silver Street and High Street. Timber-framed and roofed with thatch, it was a large building with a murky interior that smelled in equal parts of dampness, decay, and some unspecified farm animal. A sparrow was hopping along the rafters and spiders had turned the whole of the ceiling into a continuous and interconnecting series of elaborate webs. The walls were roughly plastered and some attempt had been made to decorate them with simple patterns. There were several windows but they seemed to keep out more light than they admitted. The hall was built solely for communal use. Comfort and decoration were after-thoughts.
“I wonder if he will turn up,” mused Ralph Delchard. “Who?” said Gervase Bret.
‘‘Humphrey Goldenbollocks.” “Keep your voice down!”
“We could do with him in tins gloom,” observed Ralph with a glance around. “He can stand on the table here and shed light on the whole business by displaying his golden orbs. The meeting will be illumi-nated by bollock light. Yes, I do hope that Humphrey will come.”
“I am more interested in someone else,” confessed Gervase. “Sister Tecla, by any chance?”
“No, Ralph!”
“She liked you, I could tell.”
“I will probably never see her again.”
“She’ll contrive a tryst somehow,” teased the other. “Nuns do not place their affections lightly.” The musty atmosphere made him cough. “So who are you interested in meeting in this miserable cave of a hall?”
“Tovild.”
“Who?”
“Tovild,” said Gervase. “He is mentioned in the returns a number of times. Tovild the Haunted.”
“What is it that haunts the man?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could it be Humphrey Goldenbollocks?”
“He is too busy haunting Ralph Delchard!”
They traded a laugh and took their seats as Canon Hubert and Brother Simon made their way towards them. The town reeve had been busy. He had not only summoned all interested parties to the meeting, he had arranged for the shire hall to be prepared in readiness for the event. Trestle tables had been set up at one end of the room for the commissioners and chairs had been placed behind them. Ralph took up a central position to reflect his status as leader of the quartet. Gervase sat to one side of him and Hubert to the other. Simon was on the fringe of it all with parchment and writing materials in front of him. Acting as the scribe to the proceedings, he was trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Canon Hubert, by contrast, was more rotundly self-important than ever after another delicious meal at Champeney Hall. He bulked large.
The four of them arrived well before the meeting was due to start so that they could settle in and study once more the various documents relating to the ownership of property in the region. Ralph Delchard also took care with the disposition of his knights. Two of them were stationed outside the main door while the other six stood guard just inside it. Their
chain mail had been cleaned, their helmets polished, and their swords freshly sharpened. They made an imposing sight and every visitor would be able to read the message that was implicit in their presence. The royal commissioners were there on serious business.
“Are we ready to receive them?” said Ralph, looking from one colleague to another and receiving affirmative nods from each. “Very well. Let us fight the Battle of Maldon.”
He gave a signal to the captain of his guard and the man stepped out into the street. The townspeople then began to drift in. A clerk had been positioned near the entrance so that he could record the name of everyone who attended. First came the burgesses, local men who owned a house, land, or both and thus had a recognised status in the borough. Only a proportionate number had been invited by the town reeve but others came along out of curiosity and apprehension. Royal commissioners were always bad news. The earlier team had caused immense upset in the town with the vigour of their enquiries and the threat of higher taxation. Saxon burgesses were justifiably resentful. Norman overlords had already seized their property and bled them dry. They wished to know what new impositions this second group of royal officials brought with them.
Benches had been set out and the burgesses took those near the rear of the hall, leaving the ones at the front for persons of greater rank. Many of the Norman magnates were absentee landlords and men like Ranulf Peverel, Hugh de Montfort, and Richard FitzGilbert were represented by their subtenants. Peter de Valognes also had
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