“Who is this Humphrey?” asked Brother Simon.
“May I continue?” said Canon Hubert, stepping up into the pulpit once more. “I was speaking with the Archbishop of Canterbury …” He omitted to mention that over fifty other leading churchmen were present at the synod. “… and he told me of his conviction that canon law must be our watchword. That is why he has created so many separate ecclesiastical courts in England. He is laying the foundations. Archbishop Lanfranc is making the free operation of canon law possible.” He almost choked on his girdle bread and swilled it down with some wine. “Look at the corruption and inefficiency of the Saxon church and you will see what a revolution this is. We are imposing real definition on the spiritual life of this land. We are cleansing it. We are saving it.”
“That ‘we’ being you and Lanfranc’s ear,” said Ralph.
Hubert snorted. “Is nothing sacred to you, my lord?” “Of course. Sister Tecla.”
“I must protest, Canon Hubert,” said Gilbert. “You are too harsh on the Saxon church. In my opinion …”
He and the prelate argued contentedly for an hour.
The food kept coming, the wine flowed, and their host’s benevo-lence reached new heights, but Gervase Bret was more interested in the one person who was absent from the table. When the feast was over and the guests rolled off to their respective bedchambers, he remarked on it to Ralph Delchard.
“Where was Miles Champeney?” he said.
“Where every virile young man ought to be,” replied the other. “Warm-ing the bed of his latest mistress.”
“He has pledged himself to Matilda FitzCorbucion and he is faithful
to her,” said Gervase. “Only true love could survive all the obstacles that they must have met. But why was he not at the table with us? He is the son of the house.”
“Perhaps he is away on business again.”
“His horse was in the stable when I returned.” “In that case, Miles may be unwell.”
“He was healthy enough first thing this morning.” “Then perhaps he and Gilbert have fallen out?”
“Why then did his father talk so fondly of him during the meal?”
Gervase sat on his bed and pondered. “Miles is less than welcoming to us. He has obligations to fulfill when there are guests of such distinction here, yet he keeps out of our way. He must have a reason.”
“And what might it be?” “Guilt.”
Ralph was incredulous. “Miles, a killer? Never!”
“We have, at least, to consider the possibility.” “What was his motive?”
“Hatred of Guy FitzCorbucion.” “Everyone had that.”
“They did not all fight with Guy. They did not all see him as a barrier between them and the woman they loved. We have been scour-ing the town for suspects when one might lie right here at Champeney Hall.”
“No, Gervase. You are wrong. Miles is a fine young man.” “He is a fine young man in love.”
“Would he try to kill his way to the altar?” “If there were sufficient provocation.”
“The brawl with Guy?”
“And the taunts that must have gone with it.” Gervase went over the sequence of events. “When we arrived, Miles had been away for a few days. During that time, Guy was stabbed to death. Could not Miles simply have pretended to leave the area so that he had an alibi?”
“Yes, he could. But I would doubt it very strongly.”
“Why?”
“Damnation! He is Gilbert Champeney’s son!” “That does not guarantee his innocence.”
“He would not kill merely because he hated someone.”
“I think he did it because he loved someone.” “What proof do you have?”
“None,” admitted Gervase, “beyond the fact that he has been acting so strangely since we came. But as you say, he is Gilbert’s son and a Champeney is always single-minded. Look at this manor house, Ralph. Think what an effort of will it must have taken to create it in the teeth of opposition and mockery. Fired by his love for Saxon culture, Gilbert has stuck to his mission.” He stood up again. “Miles would stick to his mission as well-fired by love of Matilda.”
“You are forgetting one thing, Gervase.”
“What is that?”
“The mutilation,” said Ralph. “It is possible, I grant you, that Miles just could have stuck a knife into the loathsome Guy. But why would he castrate him?”
“An accidental injury in a frenzied attack.”
“No, Gervase. The killer knew what he was doing.” “Then Guy must have goaded him about his manhood.”
“You’re guessing here,” said Ralph sceptically. “You will tell me next that Guy was castrated as part of a ritual mutilation to some pagan deity. After all, they dismembered St. Oswald. That must be it! Miles Champeney worships Woden!”
Gervase smiled. “I think you will find that Woden looks remarkably like this Matilda of Blackwater Hall.” He gave a shrug. “The evidence is slight, I know, but somebody killed Guy FitzCorbucion and Miles has to be a leading suspect. If he did not commit the murder, then who did?”
“An irate husband. Maldon must be full of them.” “Irate husband?”
“Yes,” said Ralph. “We know that Guy was a demon lover who rode far and wide in search of pleasure. Such men are catholic in their taste. Wives, widows, or spinsters, it does not matter to them. They are all grist to the mill.” He walked to the window and peered out into the courtyard. “Somewhere out there is a cuckolded husband who decided to put an end to Guy’s romping. That’s why he lost his bollocks, Gervase. They became golden with overuse. He stole one wife too many.”
“That, too, is a possibility,” said Gervase.
“It is more than that. It is the only explanation.”
Ralph turned away from the window and crossed to his bed. It was getting late. There was no session at the shire hall on the following day but he and Gervase had more than enough to keep them occupied. When they had set out from Winchester, the assignment in Maldon had seemed perfectly straightforward. The murder had complicated everything. Until that was solved, they would never be able to complete their work. Ralph lay down on his mattress.
“What will you do tomorrow?” he asked. “Arrest Miles?” “Gather more evidence.”
“From where?”
“Tovild the Haunted. He is still our best witness.” “A raving madman fighting a long-dead battle?”
“He saw something in the marshes, Ralph.” “The Viking invaders!”
“I still have faith in him,” said Gervase. “It may take time to separate the wheat from the chaff of his mind, but it will be worth it. Even madmen can make a sane comment.”
“Yes,” agreed Ralph. “Look at Hubert. To be serious for a moment, what about the boy?”
“Wistan? He is safe with Oslac the Priest. I will call on both of
them as well. A night’s sleep in a real bed will refresh the lad’s memory. He has much more to tell us yet.”
“About what?”
“Life on the Blackwater demesne,” said Gervase. “He has endured it for fifteen years and will have his own stories about Hamo and his two sons.” He lowered himself onto his mattress and put his hands behind his head. “Yes, I will be kept busy tomorrow. I need to see if I can draw anything more out of Brunloc the Fisherman and take another look at the place where he found the dead body.” He reached over to the candle and snuffed out the flame between moistened finger and thumb. “What about you, Ralph?”
“I will devote the day to searching for Humphrey.” “We have a case of brutal murder on our hands.”
“Yes,” said Ralph with mock annoyance. “And I have the feeling that it will be easier to solve than the mystery of Humphrey’s shining spheres. I need to spend more time with Peter de Valognes. He was in a vile mood today because Hamo had spurned his offer of help, but our sheriff is a man to be cultivated. He knows what has been going on at Blackwater and any information on that score may advantage us.” He stifled a yawn.
“What I would really like is an excuse to return to the priory.”
“Why?”
“Cakes and wine with Sister Tecla.”
“You told me that you did not even see her there.”
“That is why I wish to return, Gervase. To meet the beauteous Tecla and ask her about her prioress. Why does Lady Mindred wear jewelry under her habit? What really took her to Barking Abbey and why did that chalice go with her? There are many things I would love to ask her.”
“Let me add one more,” said Gervase. “Why did the prioress use a Saxon charm when she prayed with Sister Tecla in that church at Mountnessing?”
“Then we come to the biggest question of all.” “Biggest?”
“Sister Gunnhild.”
“What about her?”
“Is she really a woman-or a man?”
Prioress Mindred stood in front of the mirror in her chamber and brushed her long hair before plaiting it with care and letting it hang forward over one shoulder. She wore a plain white shift and a pair of slippers, which had been embroidered with gold thread. Both arms were adorned with gold clasps and there was a necklace of mixed stones around her neck. She tilted her head to admire the noble profile then fingered the jewelry at her neck. She might have repudi-ated her former life when she entered a religious house, but she could not disown all the gifts that her husband had bought for her.
On the table before her were several gold and silver rings. One had a large ruby in a setting of tiny pearls, another bore a sapphire, a third had a fierce agate, which sparkled in the flames of the candles. Mindred put the rings on her fingers and held them up to admire them. After another day behind the veil, she now felt a sense of release and elation.
Pleasure was soon replaced by remorse. The prioress was there to lead an exemplary life and not to indulge in the vanities of feminine behaviour. Pulling off the various pieces of jewelry, she put them into a box and shut the lid tight, then she turned away from the mirror and began to undo her hair before reaching for her wimple to hide it completely. Mindred then slipped on her gown and tied the drawstrings. She was about to leave the chamber when she remembered her footwear. Kicking off the embroidered slippers, she went barefoot to the door and let herself out. It was no new struggle in which she was engaged, but one that claimed her at regular intervals. Temptation was very strong and she sometimes yielded to it. But there was a perverse pleasure in repentance as well.
She went silently along the passage way and let herself into the chapel, intending to spend some time on her knees in contrition before returning to her virtuous couch. But there was someone already there. Even in the darkness, she knew it was Sister Tecla. Seen in dim outline, the young nun was lying prostrate on the steps in front of the altar, raising her head from time to time to gaze in longing before lowering it again to the hard stone. It was not the first occasion when the prioress had disturbed her nocturnal prayers. Mindred genuflected, then stepped slowly forward. Taking the nun by the shoulders, she helped her up from the ground and wrapped an arm around her.
Sister Tecla made no protest. She permitted herself to be led out of the chapel and back to her little room where she was lowered onto the bed and covered with a blanket. Mindred bent down to kiss her on the forehead and the nun began to sing quietly to herself and to rock very gently to and fro. The prioress used tender force to still her movement, then she put a finger on Tecla’s lips to silence the song. The nun turned over and drifted off to sleep. Mindred was happy. She felt that her good deed would help to atone for her bad impulse of vanity. After a last look at the slumbering Tecla, she tiptoed out and went back towards the chapel to offer her own prayers.
The splashing noise was clearly audible. As she went past the bathhouse, she heard the unmistakable sound. It was now past mid-night and all the sisters should be in their beds. Who could possibly want to take a bath at that hour? There was not even a flicker of light under the door. She groped her way to her chamber and brought one of the lighted candles back with her. The splashing continued. Bath
times were strictly regulated and each nun bathed alone. Heating the water was a communal effort. Whoever was in the bath now had not only filled it herself, she must be lying in water that was stone cold. Prioress Mindred hesitated to burst in, but her duty was clear. Someone was breaking the rules in the most flagrant way and would have to be punished.
Lifting the latch, she held up the candle and entered.
“Prioress Mindred!” exclaimed Sister Gunnhild. “Dear God!”
The prioress was completely unprepared for what she saw. Sister Gunnhild was reclining naked in the bathtub and rubbing her body all over with some rough twigs. Huge breasts bobbed in the water, a fat stomach protruded, thick white thighs were braced against the side of the tub. But it was something else that alarmed Mindred so much that she emitted a soundless scream and dropped the candle. The flame went out and she was left in total darkness with the Danish nun.
Sister Gunnhild was the first to recover. Her voice was calm and reassuring as she hauled herself out of the water.
“Go to the chapel,” she said. “I will get dressed and join you there. We must pray together.”
Miles Champeney waited until the whole household was asleep before he let himself out by a door at the back of the building. Moonlight guided his steps to the stables where he found the two horses he had saddled earlier. He led them a hundred yards away from the house before he mounted, and the soft thud of the hooves went unheard as he cantered away towards the hill, pulling the second animal behind him with a lead rein. It was a fine night with only the lightest of breezes to disturb his mantle and his cap. Miles rode steadily on and rehearsed the details in his mind. Months of planning had gone into an operation that would last no more than a few minutes, if all went well, and it was important to adhere to what had been agreed. By the time the daunting outline of Blackwater Hall rose before him, he had been through it all a dozen times.
He approached the property from the rear so that he did not disturb the dogs who were kennelled in the courtyard at the front. Close to the perimeter wall, he tethered the two horses and proceeded on foot. The coil of rope he brought now came into its own. A high stone wall was easy enough for a fit young man to scale, but Matilda would need assistance to get back over it. So he tied the rope securely to an abutment and let the end fall down to the ground. He tested it with a hard pull, then lowered himself down. Miles was now inside Blackwater Hall. The first hurdle had been cleared. Keeping low, he moved stealthily towards the house.
The ground floor was used for storage and the main entrance was at the front. Steps led up to the first floor so that provisions could be taken to the kitchens, but the occupants only used the external flight of steps to go into the house. Matilda would now use the rickety kitchen staircase to come down to him, but not before she had first signalled that everything was in order. Miles hugged the shadows and fixed his eyes on a window at the very top of the house. It was in darkness at the moment but his faith in her did not waver. She would come. If necessary, he was ready to wait for Matilda all night.
Ten minutes was all that she took. A light moved twice across the upstairs window and then vanished again. Miles came out of his hiding place and scurried across to the stout oak door of the storeroom. He was rescuing her at last from the home that she despised. They did not know exactly what would happen once they got over the wall together but they did not care. Escape was an end in itself. All else would follow naturally. They would be together and nothing else mattered besides that fact. Miles was on edge as he waited. It was weeks since he had seen her, months since they had been able to talk properly and exchange their vows. Matilda was coming to him and he shivered with anticipatory delight.
When he heard the bolt being drawn, he stepped forward with his arms out wide. The door shuddered, then swung back on creaking hinges to reveal Matilda. She wore a cloak with a hood that was pulled over her head and she came willingly into his embrace. When Miles t
ried to kiss her, however, she grabbed him by his tunic and swung him so violently against the wall that he could hardly stand. A kick from his beloved sent him to the ground and a blow from her club made him groggy. He tried to protest and reach out for her but the club descended again with greater force and Miles Champeney pitched forward into oblivion.
Hamo FitzCorbucion stepped out of the storeroom with four more of his men. The fifth now pulled back the hood and enjoyed the crude ribbing of his colleagues. The trap had been set and their quarry had strolled right into it.
“Take him away!” ordered Hamo, giving the prone figure a gratu-itous kick. “Throw him in the dungeon!”
Two men grabbed Miles by the legs and dragged him unceremoniously into the building. They bumped him down a flight of stone steps into a passageway that was lit with guttering torches. They came to a massive door into which an iron grille had been set. A key went into the lock and the door was opened. Miles Champeney was flung headfirst into the dungeon. The servant who was curled up on the ground in the pitch darkness yelled in pain as the body landed right on top of him, and the two guards roared with laughter.
“Howl as loud as you can,” said one. “Nobody can hear you.”
The door clanged shut and freedom became a memory.
Clouds drifted in not long after dawn and Maldon was soon washed by a heavy drizzle. The breeze had stiffened into a gusting wind. Those who could, stayed indoors, those who could not, braved the elements and cursed their luck. Farmers saw their harvest soaked and their livestock drenched. Sailors and fishermen felt the worst of the weather, wet through from the downpour and blown around on the normally placid waters of the River Blackwater. When the drizzle eased, they were the first to be aware of the slight improvement.
The figure on the shore was untroubled by the damp. His armour was bubbled and his mantle sodden but he still fought on in slow motion, his words blown across to Northey Island on the wind. Tovild was haunted.
Then came the clash of shields. The seamen strode up, angered by war. Often a spear went through a doomed man’s body. Wistan then went forward, the son of Thurstan, and fought against the foe. He was the slayer of three of them in the throng before Wigelm’s kinsman lay among the slain. It was a fierce encounter there. They stood fast, those warriors in the strife. Fighting men fell weary from their wounds. Blood fell to the ground …
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