Ravens Of Blackwater d-2

by Edward Marston

  Hubert snuffled. “That notion is sacrilegious!”

  “I wondered why I liked it so much,” said Ralph.

  “The Last Judgement does embody a legal concept,” said Gervase. “And we do seek to uncover sin. It was you, Canon Hubert, who told us we were engaged in a spiritual battle between good and evil.”

  “He drags religion into everything!” said Ralph. “So why do you object to this nickname, Hubert? If we are engaged in compiling a Domesday Book, then you are the bold St. Peter who is standing at the gates of Heaven to prevent the unworthy from sneaking in. I should have thought that role would suit you admirably.”

  Gervase smiled and Gilbert laughed breathily but the canon inhaled deeply through his nose and chose to maintain a dignified silence until he suffered an inconvenient outbreak of flatulence and had to disguise it beneath a flurry of protests. It was a lively debate. The four of them were sitting over the remains of another fine meal and watching the last hour of a long day slowly expiring. Apart from a few servants waiting to clear the table, everyone else had taken to their beds. Ralph and Hubert were sipping from cups of French wine, Gervase was sampling some home-brewed ale, and the Saxon-loving Gilbert was drinking mead.

  “What lies ahead for your tomorrow?” asked Gilbert. “Further deliberations in the shire hall,” said Hubert.

  “We will not begin until ten,” Ralph reminded him, “and that will give us ample time for other things. I will take my men out for exercise shortly after dawn.”

  “I may join you,” volunteered Gilbert. “Gervase?” “I will stay here.”

  “Come with us. A gallop will invigorate you.”

  “I will be too busy trotting through more documents,” said Gervase. “Besides, if I can find an hour, I need to spend it with one of your neighbours.”

  “Which one?”

  “Tovild the Haunted.”

  Gilbert chuckled. “Better you than me!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The fellow is crack-brained. He has been fighting the Battle of Maldon these past forty years and he still cannot decide whether he is Saxon or Viking.” Gilbert gave a compassionate shrug of the shoulders. “Tovild will not harm a fly but his company can be troublesome.”

  “Where might I find him?”

  “On the battlefield,” said Gilbert. “Where else?” He turned to Canon Hubert. “Which will you choose? An hour in the saddle with us or an hour of amiable madness from Tovild the Haunted?”

  “Neither,” said Hubert. “Horsemanship does not interest me and I already have enough fools and madmen to deal with. When I have worked and prayed, I will visit the convent. Prioress Mindred invited Brother Simon and me to call on her and her little community.”

  “Take me with you,” offered Ralph with enthusiasm.

  “The invitation was for two of us only.”

  “Then two of us only will go. Brother Simon goes weak at the knees when he gets within a hundred yards of a woman. To take him into the priory would be an ordeal both for him and for the holy sisters. Just think how unhappy he was in Barking Abbey.” Ralph tapped his chest. “I will take Simon’s place. I’ll even wear his cowl, if you wish.”

  “I wish that you would reconsider, my lord,” said Hubert. “I do. I’ll omit the cowl but I’ll still come.”

  “Prioress Mindred may be a trifle disturbed.”

  “Then you will be on hand to comfort her.” Ralph warmed to the prospect. “It will be good to see her and Sister Tecla again. I’ll give both of them your love, Gervase.”

  “My regards will be sufficient.”

  “Shall I pass them on to Sister Gunnhild as well?” “Who is Sister Gunnhild?” asked Hubert.

  “A Danish nun,” explained Gilbert, “and a lady of some distinction.

  She takes a leading part in the running of the priory and has only one flaw.”

  “Flaw?”

  “She disapproves of men.”

  “There you are, Hubert,” said Ralph jovially. “Sister Gunnhild is ripe for conversion. She does not sound like my ideal of womanhood so I will leave you to introduce her to the delights of male companionship. I will reserve my attentions for dear Sister Tecla.”

  Time had been both kind and cruel to Sister Gunnhild. At an age when most nuns were vexed by failing eyesight and brittle bones, she remained in robust health and shirked none of the manual labour that fell to her. While the years had dealt lightly with her body, however, they had been altogether rougher with her mind and heart.

  Sister Gunnhild felt that her qualities had never truly been appreci-ated and that this had militated against her on a number of occasions. She studied hard to make herself devout and cultured but others still persisted in the belief that her education was somehow suspect, and that the very fact of her Danish ancestry disabled her from becoming a true Saxon nun. Abbess Aelfgiva had valued her as a reliable workhorse rather than as the worthy successor that Gunnhild had hoped to be. She was coming around to the dispiriting view that the abbess had released her to join the priory as much to get rid of her as to provide Mindred with a wholly dependable helpmeet. It was a sobering reflection.

  Sister Gunnhild was a martyr to her own unpopularity and it gave her a sometimes abrasive streak. There were compensations and she thanked God daily for them. If she could not rule her own house, she would exert a degree of control through Prioress Mindred. It was a slow process, which could not be hurried, but her position was increasingly influential and it enabled her to correct the recurring mistakes that the prioress made out of sheer inexperience. In a small community, too, relationships were more intense and she derived much pleasure from some of these. Sister Lewinna might exasperate her but the others were friendly and respectful. Then there was Sister Tecla. Thoughts of Tecla lifted Sister Gunnhild out of her bed that morning.

  It was her self-appointed duty to ring the bell for Matins and start each day of the spiritual life. Other nuns found it difficult to wake at such an early hour but she could do so without apparent effort or discomfort. St. Benedict was no remote and insensitive dictator who imposed his Rule without making provision for human frailty. The order might be strict but it was shot through with an understanding of the limitations common to all. Instead of decreeing that the brothers should be torn rudely from their sleep by the clanging of the Matins bell, Benedict advised that they should first be brought from their slumbers with a gentle shake so that they were properly awake when they were summoned to the first service of the day.

  Holy sisters were no less deserving than holy brothers of this act of consideration, and Sister Gunnhild shuffled out to perform it. Each of the nuns had a small, bare room off a narrow passageway and it was along this that Gunnhild now crept in the darkness. There was a set order to her morning ritual. Sister Lewinna had to be roused first because she took longest to wake and a vigorous pummelling of the shoulder had to be substituted for the soft touch of an arm, which could rouse the others. Last to be awakened was Sister Tecla. This gave her an extra minute of precious sleep and enabled Gunnhild to show her favouritism in yet another way.

  Padding down the passageway, she slipped first into one room and then into another until all five nuns had been brought back to the realities of the world. Prioress Mindred slept behind a locked door and a sharp knock was used to intrude into her dreams. With duty over, Gunnhild could now turn to pleasure and she found her way to the last room.

  “Wake up, Sister Tecla,” she whispered. “It is time.”

  There was no groan of acknowledgement and no shifting of the blanket under which she slept. Tecla often woke as soon as Gunnhild entered the room and the excuse to touch her was taken away. Gunnhild approached the bed.

  “Wake up, Tecla,” cooed Gunnhild. “It’s me.”

  But her hand met no warm body and no smooth skin. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that Sister Tecla was not in her cell. Wherever could she be at that time? It was unimaginable that she was sharing a bed with one of her
holy sisters, but Gunnhild nevertheless went quickly back into the passageway and checked each room more carefully. She then went to the front door of the priory but it was still bolted from the inside and locked by the key that was kept in Mindred’s quarters. Gunnhild flitted around in mild alarm until she remembered the one place where Sister Tecla might be and headed straight for it.

  The garden reposed in deep shadow. A crescent moon was shedding only the most grudging tight. A distant owl joined a choir of nightingales to sing an occasional solo. Sister Gunnhild hurried out onto the grass and peered around intently, trying to make sense of the dark shapes all around her. At first she could find nothing, but a closer inspection yielded success. Sister Tecla was lying on the grass, tucked away in the far corner of the garden. Evidently, she had been there for some time and was fast asleep. Relief at having found her jostled with concern for her health and Gunnhild knelt down to bend right over her and take her by the shoulders. She rocked the supine figure with a tender hand.

  “Wake up, Sister Tecla. You cannot sleep here.” She began to stir. “What …?” she mumbled. “You are in the garden. Open your eyes.”

  “Who is it?” said Tecla, struggling to awake. “It’s me, Sister Gunnhild.”

  “Tired …”

  “You can’t lie on the grass like that.” “Fell asleep …”

  “Let me help you up.” “So tired …”

  Sister Tecla allowed herself to be lifted up into a sitting position and became aware of where she actually was. She rubbed her eyes and gave an involuntary shudder. It was enough to make Gunnhild throw protective arms around her.

  “Oh, my poor child!” she said. “What ails you?”

  Before Sister Tecla could answer, another figure stepped across the grass in the darkness and stood beside them. There was a slight note of reprimand in Prioress Mindred’s voice.

  “Thank you, Sister Gunnhild,” she said. “You may ring the bell now. I will take over here.”

  It was a moving service. Guy FitzCorbucion was universally disliked outside Blackwater Hall yet everyone who passed the Church of All Souls’ that morning had paid him the tribute of a passing sigh. Few wished him to be alive but the manner of his death aroused a spark of sympathy in most of the people of Maldon and they accepted his right to be buried with all due respect. In front of a full congregation, Mass was sung for the soul of the departed, then Oslac the Priest gave a short address, which struck exactly the right note. He praised Guy’s few good qualities while carefully sliding over his many bad ones, and he tried to draw positive lessons out of the searing tragedy. When the mourners followed the cortege out into the churchyard, most were weeping and some had to be steadied or even carried along.

  Matilda found it totally harrowing and she clung to Jocelyn’s arm throughout, near to collapse at times and bursting into tears at the point where Guy’s body was lowered into the grave. Guy had been a destructive presence in her life but he was still her brother and the blood tie could not be denied. Part of Matilda herself was being sent into that gaping hole in the ground. Jocelyn bore up well. He was visibly shaken during the service but sensed that others would need to rely on him and that it was vital to show strength and control. Beneath the expressionless face was also a stirring of the ambition that had been ground down for so long. Guy was finally out of his way.

  Hamo FitzCorbucion behaved with a restraint which few expected. He shed no tears and required no supportive hands. He subdued his anger beneath his grief and watched in mute torment as his elder son took his leave of the world. Fears that he might explode during the service were not realised and Oslac was especially relieved that the grave of Algar was neither attacked nor even reviled. The ravens looked like family members around this corpse and they were not cawing nor pecking.

  When the service was over, the priest spoke first to the distraught Matilda and then to the dignified Hamo. His offer of help was well intentioned and sincere but neither would be able to take it. The daughter was too enmeshed in her own ambivalence and the father was too keen to take the edge off his sorrow by capturing his son’s killer. Most of the congregation would be returning to Blackwater Hall for the funeral bake-meats but the master of the house would not be with them. No sooner did he step off consecrated ground than he became a coarse apostate.

  “Bring the men and ride to Northey Island.”

  “Again, my lord?” said the steward. “He’s still there! I smelled his stink!” “Will you be at the hall, my lord?” “No! I will lead the search.”

  “Now?” said Fulk in surprise.

  “Now!” confirmed Hamo. “Guy is in his grave. We must find the slave who put him there.” He raised his voice to a bellow as his knights milled around him. “Catch him alive and fetch him before me. I’ll make him eat his own offal before I tear him to pieces with my bare hands! Away!”

  Tovild the Haunted lifted his shield up on one arm and held his spear poised in the other hand. He was ready for battle. The tide was ebbing fast and the causeway, which reached out the island, rose briefly above the water before being washed under again. A stiff breeze tore at the white hair that streamed out from below his helmet. In the armour of a Saxon warrior of old, Tovild took his brave stance and declaimed his speech to the gulls.

  “The tide went out, the pirates stood ready, many Vikings eager for battle. Then the protector of heroes commanded a warrior, stern in fight, to hold the bridge; he was called Wulfstan, bold among his race …”

  Gervase Bret recognised him at once and he also knew the poem whose words were being thrown up into the sky with such challenge. Tovild was not just quoting from “The Battle of Maldon,” he was re-enacting it with weapon and gesture. Gervase watched as a phantom Viking was speared to death, then he stepped forward to interrupt the carnage.

  “You are Tovild, I believe?” he said.

  “My name is Wulfstan,” said the other. “Leave me be.” “I must speak with you, Tovild.”

  “We are fighting a battle.” “The Vikings will win.”

  “Not if I hold the bridge!” He killed another imaginary attacker then warded off a third with his shield. “Fight beside me, young man. Our leader commands it.”

  “Rest yourself from the fray, sir. You deserve it.”

  Gervase stood right in front of him and the spear was raised to strike him. He got a much closer look into the gnarled face this time. Tovild was ancient. The scrawny body looked ridiculous in the armour and the weight of shield and lance was already making him breathe stertorously, but he did not desist. He was animated by a spirit that drove him on to fight a battle that had been won and lost almost a century earlier on that same bank of the estuary. His eyes flared with anger and his arm drew back. When the spear was hurled, however, it sank harmlessly into the ground beside Gervase.

  “Thank you, Tovild. I will not keep you long.” “Who are you?” croaked the old man.

  “My name is Gervase Bret.” “Saxon or Viking?”

  “Saxon, like you. We have met before.” “You fought at the battle?”

  “We met yesterday. I searched among the reeds. You came out of the bushes to speak to me. Do you not remember?”

  Tovild narrowed his eyes to squint at Gervase but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze. He put his shield down beside the spear then beckoned his companion over.

  “Question me with wise words, young man,” he said. “It concerns a murder.”

  “Let not thy thought be hidden.”

  “You said you were a witness.”

  “I will not tell thee my secret if thou concealest thy wisdom and the thoughts of thy heart.”

  “We need your help, Tovild.”

  “Wise men must needs exchange proverbs.” “You know something.”

  But the old man clearly did not trust him and he shook his head slowly from side to side. The eyes now had a cunning glint to them as if Tovild was enjoying a game with his questioner. He began to hum quietly to himself.

  “Listen to m
e,” said Gervase, enunciating his words carefully. “There was a murder. A young man was stabbed to death in the marshes. You saw it, Tovild.”

  “Yes, yes,” he admitted with a cackle. “Tell me what happened.”

  “A raven was killed.”

  “How?”

  “I hate all ravens.” “What happened?”

  “The knife cut his wings off.”

  “Who did it?”

  Gervase put a hand on his arm but he jumped back as if he had been scalded and rubbed the place where he had been touched. The Saxon warrior now looked like a beaten child.

  “Keep away!” he begged. “You’re a friend of the ravens. You’ve come to peck at me. I won’t help them. Keep away.”

  “I’m a friend of Oslac the Priest,” said Gervase, trying to soothe him. “You saw me with him. Yesterday.”

  “Oslac?”

  “He will vouch for me. I am a visitor here.” Tovild grew faint. “I saw nothing, young sir.” “You did. You told me.”

  “The ravens will come for me.”

  “I have nothing to do with Blackwater Hall.” “They’ll eat me alive with their beaks.”

  “You saw me with Oslac.”

  Gervase was up against a powerful blend of madness and apprehension. The old man was an impossible witness. All he wanted was to be left alone to fight his battle once more. Tovild the Haunted patently knew something about the murder of Guy FitzCorbucion but he was too confused to remember much about it and too frightened to admit the little he did recall. Gervase made a vain attempt to pluck a few details out of him but his efforts were short-lived. There was a rumble of thunder behind him and he turned to see what it was.

  The sight was daunting. Hamo FitzCorbucion had shaken off all the restraints of mourning. He was riding towards them at full pelt with his sword in his hand and forty armed men at his back. It was a veritable cavalry charge and there was no doubt where it was heading. Gervase was forced to jump back as Hamo pounded past him onto the causeway. Fulk and the leading riders went after him in clamorous pursuit and urgent hooves sent up a thick spray that obliterated them as they splashed their way to the island. Gervase dodged as best he could but they came at him too fast from too many angles. The flank of one horse eventually caught him a glancing blow and knocked him to the ground, leaving him stunned. The hooves of another drummed past his ears. He lay there awhile until the entire troop was safely past him and churning up the water on the surface of the causeway. Hamo and his men were thirsting for blood.