Miles shuffled about and hurled a kick at the door. “We must get out of this hole!” he urged.
“It is impossible, my lord.” “There has to be a way!”
“Nobody has ever found it before.”
“I still have my dagger,” said Miles, pulling it from its scabbard. “They did not take that away from me.”
“What use is one dagger against a dozen swords?”
“I will attack the guard when he brings food.”
“He will not even come, my lord,” said the servant. “We get no food. Starvation is part of our punishment.”
“They can’t treat us like this!” yelled Miles.
“My lord, Hamo, can do whatever he wishes.”
Miles Champeney railed aloud but he knew that his cries were futile. He was an enemy of Blackwater Hall who had dared to trespass on it. Hamo FitzCorbucion would show no mercy. Matilda was trapped as helplessly as her beloved so there was no possibility of rescue from her. Only one person could save him now but he had estranged himself from that same person by his flight from Champeney Hall. Gilbert had threatened to disown him if he persisted in the folly of trying to wed Matilda. Why should a father come to the aid of a son who so blatantly defied his wishes? Miles began to resign himself to the inevitable. He was doomed.
Ralph Delchard listened to Gilbert Champeney with gathering impatience, then smashed his fist down on to the oak table. They were in Gilbert’s chamber and the latest example of Hamo’s perfidy had been exposed to view. Ralph demanded action.
“Take your men and ride to Blackwater Hall!” he said.
“What good would that do?” asked Gilbert sadly. “Hamo has four times my number of knights and he will mock me.”
“Let me go in your stead!” volunteered Ralph. “That would serve no purpose.”
“I will insist that he hand your son over.”
“Hamo would not receive you,” said Gilbert. “He would simply close his gates upon you and keep you outside. Even your writ does not extend to Blackwater.”
“Then we must call on Peter de Valognes.”
“No, Ralph!”
“He is the sheriff.”
“Then he has business enough to keep him occupied.” “Peter de Valognes has the authority to compel Hamo.”
“Not in this instance, Ralph.”
“Send in the sheriff. Demand the release of your son.”
“How do we know that Miles is held at the house?” said Gilbert balefully. “Fulk was far too wily to tell me more than is needful. They may have him hidden anywhere on the demesne. We cannot ask the sheriff to go searching for a missing son when he is already hunting for a murderer.” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Besides, this is a domestic matter. It must be sorted out between Hamo and me.”
“Then what do you propose to do?”
“Offer him money. Try to buy him off.” “Money!” Ralph was fuming. “Danegeld!”
“What other way is there?”
“Brute force,” said Ralph. “He may have his army of knights but most of them are still out searching for Wistan. Add my men to yours and we have a sizeable troop. Join them with the sheriff and his officers and even Hamo will have to pay attention to what we say.”
“It is not that simple, Ralph.”
“Miles is your son. Fight to get him back.”
“I would,” said Gilbert in despair, “but Hamo holds all the weapons. He sent his steward here to strike a bargain. Miles will be set free if I hand over the documents that accuse Blackwater Hall.”
“That would disarm us completely. When we meet him at the shire hall, we would have no case to offer against him.” He flashed an admonitory glance at his host. “Would you really have betrayed us in that way, Gilbert?”
“I was sorely tempted, I know that.”
“To steal from your own guests!” “My son’s life is at stake here.”
“Then take your case to the sheriff!”
“No!” shouted Gilbert vehemently, rising to his feet. “What am I to tell him? That my son ran off against my wishes and was caught in a snare by Hamo? What proof do I have? You saw Fulk enter this house but you did not hear what he told me. He has only to deny every word that passed between us and my case crumbles.” He walked up to Ralph with his hands spread in a plea. “There is no help for me here. Peter de Valognes is a power in the shire but he will not thank me for trying to drag him into a dispute of this kind. Where is the crime in his eyes? A sheriff must stay above the petty squabbles of barons.” More tears formed. “And besides, I have my pride, Ralph. I would be too ashamed to admit what has befallen me and how I was even driven to steal from worthy friends like you. People may laugh at Champeney Hall but it has a reputation to uphold.”
Ralph Delchard could hear what the other man was saying and he had profound sympathy. The son may have inadvertently plunged them into the mess but the father was not entirely free from blame. His attitude had been one of the pressures that forced Miles to follow such a reckless course of action. Ralph was angry that a host would dare even to think of stealing from his guests, but his real venom was directed solely at Hamo FitzCorbucion. The master of Blackwater Hall was entirely without scruple. To disable the commissioners who could threaten his position, he had turned a generous man like Gilbert Champeney into a common thief. He would have no compunction about starving the son to death if the father did not meet the terms of the corrupt bargain.
After lengthy brooding, Ralph spied a possible solution. “I would like to meet this Matilda,” he said.
“Matilda?”
“If she can inspire such love in your son, she must be a remarkable young lady.” He gave a reassuring smile. “Miles risked his life to get to her. He may be foolhardy but I like his courage. It must not go to waste. Take heart, my friend. We will save him.”
“How?”
“By turning Brother Simon loose on Hamo.” “Brother Simon?”
“Yes,” said Ralph with a grin. “He may seem a timid creature who is afraid of his own shadow, but he is the strongest weapon in our armoury. Let us find him. Two lovers may yet be rescued by a Benedictine monk.”
Chapter Eight
Right sunshine had followed the uncertain start to the day and the earlier squall was a receding memory. The wind had now dropped to a token puff. Maldon was warm, dry, and positively throbbing with activity. It was market day and stallholders who had set out their wares during the last of the rain were now wiping the sweat from their brows and complaining about the heat. People streamed into the town for the occasion, some by horse or on foot from outlying areas, some by boat from Goldhanger or West Mersea and beyond. Fish was fresh, oysters were cheap, and vegetables were plentiful. The local cheese was much in demand. Live poultry, leather goods, basketware, dyed cloth, and pottery were also on sale with dozens of other items. There was even a man who simultaneously told fortunes and pulled teeth with an alarming pair of pincers. One glance at the blood-stained molars that lay in his earthenware bowl was enough to cure most species of toothache.
Gervase Bret was searching the market for a cutler. Having tethered his horse nearby, he made his way through the seething mass of people who had converged on the junction of High Street and Silver Street. The noise and bustle could not compare with the pandemo-nium that London had to offer but it still took him some minutes to find what he wanted. The cutler was a short, tubby man with a ragged beard. He wore a rough woollen tunic, which was making him perspire, and kept taking a swig out of a cup of water near his hand. When Gervase came up to the stall, the man was sharpening a blade on a whetstone, which he revolved by pressing his foot on a treadle. Sparks flew up into his pudgy face but they did not seem to bother him at all.
The cutler glanced at Gervase and scented a potential customer. He broke off from his task and gave a lopsided grin.
“Can I help you, young sir?” he asked.
“I hope so,” said Gervase. “I found a knife and I wondered if you could tell me a
nything about it.”
“Found one?” He was disappointed. “Is that all?”
“Your help could be important.”
“Not to me, sir. I only sell or sharpen knives.”
“I’ll pay you for your time,” volunteered Gervase, and the cutler’s manner changed at once. “Here’s the knife.”
The murder weapon was tucked in his belt and he pulled it out to
pass it across. It was a long-bladed implement with a stout bone handle, which had been worn to the shape of someone’s palm by constant use. The cutler took one look and gave a satisfied chuckle.
“What can you tell me?” asked Gervase. “Anything you want to know, sir. I made this.”
“You made it?”
“A kitchen knife. For slicing food of any kind.”
“Are you certain that it is yours?”
The man looked offended. “My mark is upon it!”
“Of course.” Gervase thrust a hand into his purse and gave him a few coins. “Tell me all you can.”
“There’s not much more to say,” admitted the man, “but this is my
workmanship. Look, sir. I have the twin to your knife lying here on my stall.” He picked up one of the knives on display and placed it beside the other. They were virtually identical. “I have made and sold a hundred or more like this.”
“And who buys them?” said Gervase. “Everybody with an eye for quality.”
“So you cannot tell me who bought this particular one?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” The cutler waved a stubby hand at the crowd. “There is my market, sir. I work for all and sundry. This knife of yours might have been sold to a baker to slice his bread, a butcher to cut up his meat, or a fisherman to gut his catch. Any wife might have bought it to use in her kitchen.” He gave a dark laugh. “Or on her husband! For it will go through live flesh just as easily as dead.” Gervase could vouch for that. He took the implement back and turned it over in his hand as he examined it.
“How long ago did you make this?” he said.
“A year at most. Maybe as little as six months ago.”
“Could it get so worn in such a short time?”
The man gave his lopsided grin. “I can see you do not work in a kitchen, sir. If you hold anything in your hand for ten hours a day, you will leave your imprint on it. This knife has been well used but it has been looked after. The blade is as sharp as any razor and the point is like a needle. My guess is that it belonged to a cook.”
“Someone from Maldon?”
“Who can say?” He started the whetstone. “You’ll find my knives in Barking and Brightlingsea, in Colchester and Coggeshall. Why, sir, I daresay that knives just like the one you hold are being used by the monks of Waltham Abbey at this very moment to cut their venison.”
Gervase smiled. “Forest law forbids them to hunt deer and the Rule of St. Benedict prevents them from eating rich meat.”
“Laws and rules don’t bother them,” said the man as he sharpened his blade again. “Most of the brothers I’ve met are fatter than me and they didn’t get bellies like that from eating gruel and fish.” He glanced at the knife that Gervase was putting back in his belt. “Give it to me, sir.”
“Why?”
“So that I can sell it again. It’s no use to you.”
“But it is, my friend.”
“In a Kitchen?”
“No,” said Gervase. “In a court of law.”
He thanked the man and moved off through the crowd. The stroll to the Church of All Souls’ took no more than a minute and he was pleased to find Oslac inside. The priest was kneeling in prayer before the altar and he remained there for some time. Gervase waited quietly at the rear of the nave then stepped forward. Oslac was pleased to see him and hustled his visitor straight into the vestry.
“I have a message for you.”
“For me?”
“You are to return to Champeney Hall as soon as possible,” said the priest. “One of the soldiers from your escort called in at the church even now. He knew that you would be coming here at some point.”
Gervase frowned. “Did he say why I was summoned?”
“No, but he was anxious to reach you. That suggests the matter is of some importance.”
“I will go at once,” said Gervase, turning away.
“Wait!” said Oslac, with a restraining hand on his arm. “I must hear your news first. And you must hear mine. You can stay in Maldon two minutes longer, surely?”
Gervase relaxed slightly. “At least.” “Tell me what you have found.”
“I tracked down Tovild the Haunted once more.” “Was he still fighting?”
“Furiously.”
“Which army was he in this time?”
“The Saxon,” said Gervase. “I found him killing Vikings and quoting his poem.”
“They say that the Battle of Maldon lasted for fourteen days, but Tovild has been fighting it for fourteen years and more.” He smiled sadly. “Did you draw anything out of him?”
“A stream of riddles.” “That is his way, I fear.”
“I proved one thing for certain,” said Gervase. “He did witness the
murder. Of that there can be no doubt.” “Why?”
“He gave me this.” He took out the knife. “It was used to kill Guy FitzCorbucion then tossed into the water.”
Oslac looked at the weapon with horrid fascination as if wanting to take it but fearing its taint if he did so.
“Can you be sure that this is the murder weapon?”
“I would swear it, Father Oslac.” “And Tovild found it for you?”
“At the scene of the crime.”
The priest grew wary. “Did he tell you who the killer was?” he asked. “Did he give you a name?”
“No name, only another riddle.”
“What was it?”
“I cannot remember it all,” confessed Gervase, “and I am nowhere near solving it yet. There were some letters in it but I would need to rack my brain to tease each one out again. Tovild gabbled away at me, gave me the knife, and then vanished into thin air.”
“He gave you the knife?”
“From the place where it had been thrown. He had to lie on his chest and grope about in the mud.”
“But he knew exactly where to look, it seems.”
“What do you mean?”
Oslac stared at him with a level gaze and Gervase realised what he was suggesting. It was a notion that had never crossed his mind and he was shocked that the priest would even consider it. Gervase dismissed it out of hand.
“No, no,” he said. “Tovild is quite innocent.”
“Then how could he lead you straight to the knife?”
“He saw where it was tossed.”
“Could he not have put it there himself?” said Oslac. “If a man wanted to get rid of a murder weapon, would he not cast it right out into the marshes? Yet you tell me that Tovild lay down on the ground and reached for it.”
“That is true.”
“It was in its hiding place.”
“Then why give it to me at all?” asked Gervase. “If he was the killer, he would do everything to conceal the crime and not assist me in solving it. You said yourself that the man is completely harmless. Can you see that gnarled old warrior committing a murder?”
“Frankly-no.”
“Then put the whole idea aside.”
“I fear that I cannot,” said Oslac tenaciously. “I love Tovild as much as I pity him. He is in the grip of some benign madness that makes him play the soldier. Tovild could never commit a murder because that needs sanity and a degree of premeditation.” He pointed to the knife. “But he could kill a man by accident in the heat of battle.”
“By accident?”
“You have seen the way he hacks the air with his sword and jabs at his unseen enemy with his spear.” Oslac shook his head slowly. “His very harmlessness may be the key to it all here. Guy would not have been troubled by his approach.
”
“But why should Tovild approach him?”
“Because Guy came to laugh at him. Because Guy was there to taunt a ridiculous old man in rusty armour.” He developed the idea with a growing belief in its virtues. “That must have been it, Master Bret! Do you not see? Guy FitzCorbucion was trespassing. He was treading on the sacred battlefield where Tovild worships each day. It was sheer sacrilege. A young Norman Knight was goading a decrepit old Saxon. Is it not conceivable that Tovild lashed out at him? He has been killing imaginary invaders all these years, why should he not cut down a real one? Guy did not have time to defend himself because he was taken unawares.” Oslac was talking with great intensity now. “I viewed the body and it had been cruelly disfigured. Such mutilation happens in combat. We may smile at Tovild the Haunted because of his strange antics, but there is a lot of wanton violence in a man who fights a bitter foe every day of his life.”
Gervase had to concede that it was within the bounds of possibility.
He also saw that a murder committed in such a way would not be recognised by Tovild as a crime. It would be one more brave action in the eternal battle that he waged. Handing over the knife to Gervase was a circuitous way of boasting about his triumph. Somewhere in that final riddle Tovild might even have hidden a form of confession. It was all possible and yet Gervase could not somehow accept it. What really puzzled him was why Oslac was so ready to incriminate the old man. From the moment he saw the murder weapon, the priest had been speaking with a defensive urgency that Gervase had never heard before. He slipped the knife back into his belt and nodded.
“I will think on it,” he said, “but now I must go.”
“One second more, please.”
“They have sent for me. I am needed at Champeney Hall.”
“You have not heard my tidings yet,” said Oslac. “You have at least made progress. I have only found setback.”
“Setback?”
“Wistan. He spent the night in my house.”
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