“What was Guy FitzCorbucion doing there?”
“In the marshes?”
“He must have had a good reason to go to such a place.”
“Unless he was taken,” said Ralph. “That is more logical. He may have been killed elsewhere and then carried to the water’s edge and dumped in.”
“I doubt it. Think of his wounds. He had been stabbed many times. There would have been a trail of blood and the killer would also have been covered in it.” Gervase tapped his finger on the table. “I believe he went to that place to meet someone. That same person had chosen the spot with care because it was ideal for his purposes.”
“Who would Guy have gone to see? And why?”
“Let us try a process of elimination,” said Gervase. “We know that
Wistan is not the murderer.” “Nor is Miles Champeney.”
“Perhaps not.”
“You were wrong there, Gervase.”
“We had to look at every possible suspect.”
“Does that include Tovild the Haunted?”
“I fear that it does. And Oslac the Priest.”
“Oslac?”
“His behaviour was most odd,” said Gervase. “And he has as much reason to hate the FitzCorbucions as anyone. Hamo took his land after the Conquest. Hamo holds the advowson of his church. Hamo has killed more than one of his parishioners. Oslac is a strong man.” He saw that Ralph was unconvinced. “Yes, I know. Oslac is a true Christian and believes that the taking of a human life is anathema. But look at Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. Nobody could be more devout than they, yet they are condoning this forgery of ours in order to expose a much larger act of fraud.”
“Oslac killed in order to prevent more killing?”
“Guy FitzCorbucion was a symbol of oppression.”
“So is Hamo,” said Ralph. “Why murder the son when the father’s death would remove an even worse tyrant?”
“Hamo is too wily and well guarded. He would never have gone off alone to a secluded spot in the marshes. The killer waited until he was out of the way before he set to work on Guy.”
“And you think that Oslac could do that?”
“I’m not sure,” said Gervase uncertainly. “But I wonder about the sword that Wistan stole from him. Why does a man of God have a weapon of war in his house? And what I do know is that Guy would have trusted him. If the priest had arranged to meet him at that spot, he would have gone without fear of danger.” He took the knife back and held it up.
“Until he saw this.”
“Oslac still seems an unlikely assassin to me,” said Ralph. “But you are right about one thing. Guy would only go to that place to meet someone he knew and trusted.”
“That rules out Wistan and Miles completely.”
“Who does it leave?”
They sifted through all the names once more but they could not agree on any one of them as the perpetrator of the crime. Gervase wondered if it was time to widen their search.
“Guy FitzCorbucion is killed,” he said. “Cui bono?”
“Cui bono?”
“Who stands to gain by his murder?”
“Every man, woman, and child in the town.”
“But who will gain most?” asked Gervase. “Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong place, Ralph. We have only considered enemies of the family instead of the family itself. That would certainly give us motive. And there would be ample opportunity.”
“The family itself?”
“Think back to our first afternoon at the shire hall,” he said, moving around the chamber as he developed his argument and becoming more and more persuaded by it. “He went out of his way to challenge us. Remember how cool and assured he was? Did you see how eager he was to assert his authority? Did you notice how important it was for him to put us in our place?”
“Jocelyn FitzCorbucion?”
“Who else?”
“But what did he stand to gain?”
“Power.”
“The younger son,” mused Ralph. “Weary of staying in his elder brother’s shadow. More intelligent and gifted than Guy but forced into the background.”
“Biding his time. Waiting to fulfill his own ambitions.” “He was certainly a self-possessed young man.”
“Indeed, he was,” said Gervase. “Consider the position he was in that afternoon. His father was away, his brother was lying on a slab at the church, his sister was agitating about Miles Champeney, and there was still bad feeling among his slaves as a result of Algar’s death. Jocelyn had much to do. There was a search party to organise and a huge demesne to administer, yet he rolls up at the shire hall as if he did not have a care in the world. What does all that tell you, Ralph?”
“Put his name at the top of our list.” “Cui bono?”
“Joceyln FitzCorbucion.”
Jocelyn FitzCorbucion fretted quietly in a corner while his father guzzled his way through his food. He felt cheated of his fair reward. Thanks to him, Matilda was imprisoned in her chamber at the top of the house while Miles Champeney was languishing in the dungeon below it. He had discovered the planned elopement and been instrumental in stopping it. The political marriage, which Hamo had arranged in Coutances for his daughter, could now take place without the hindrance of a rival. But something else rankled even more. Jocelyn had taken considerable pains to prepare a solid defence against the accusations of the royal commissioners. Blackwater Hall would be saved by his mastery of detail and brilliance as an advocate. Hamo had swept him aside uncaringly and chosen a much quicker and cruder method of defying his enemies. It was galling. Jocelyn was deprived of his chance to prove himself in legal debate and robbed of the glory, which he was convinced he would have won.
Hamo swilled down his food with some wine and belched.
“He will not come,” decided Jocelyn. “Gilbert has to come. Give him time.” “He would never steal from his guests.”
“He is not stealing,” said Hamo, sitting back in his chair. “He is merely borrowing a few documents.”
“They will be missed. He will be caught.”
“Gilbert Champeney will do exactly what I told him.” “But suppose that he does not, Father?”
“He has no choice.”
“Suppose he does not?” repeated Jocelyn, crossing to face him. “You will need my skills then. You will have to rely on my advocacy in front of the commissioners. I have prepared a stout defence with walls as thick as those of Colchester Castle. We would be invincible in battle.”
Hamo was unimpressed. “When Gilbert follows his orders, there will be no battle. Why waste all that time in a draughty shire hall when we can send these idiots packing in less than an hour?” His fingers ran over the fruit bowl and settled on an apple. “You still have much to learn, Jocelyn,”
“Nobody has studied harder.”
“Study is only part of it. Instinct is the key.” “I have that, too.”
“Not like me. Not like your brother, Guy. He had real instinct. Guy knew how to find out a man’s weakness.”
“It was usually his wife!” said Jocelyn ruefully. “Don’t you dare speak ill of Guy!”
“No, Father.”
“He was twice the son you are!” yelled Hamo. He stifled a rejoinder. “Yes, Father,” he said.
Hamo bit into the apple and chewed it noisily. It was early evening
and the sun was still putting a bright sheen on Blackwater Hall, but its rays had failed to penetrate the house itself and to thaw out the cold fury of its master.
“Where did they search today?” he snarled.
“To the north, Father. As you directed.”
“That boy has to be here!”
“After all this time? I doubt it.”
“Where else could he go?” demanded Hamo. “He has no money and no horse. Everyone is out looking for him. I’ve put such a high price on his young head that even his father would have turned him in for the reward.”
“Perhaps he is already dead. Drowned in
the estuary.” “He is still alive. I feel it.”
“Then they will find him eventually.”
“Tomorrow, I will ride out with them myself.”
“But we are summoned to the shire hall, Father.”
“That business will not detain us long,” said Hamo through a mouthful of apple. “I’ll go along to spit in the eye of the commissioners then join the hunt for my son’s killer. They’ll have no case against me.”
“Only if Gilbert Champeney does your bidding.” “He will, Jocelyn. Mark my words.”
“So many things could go wrong,” warned his son. “My way is slower but more secure. Let me explain how I would go about it, Father. I have taken the measure of these royal commissioners so I know precisely what to expect from them. First of all …”
Hamo ignored him. He had heard something else and it got him up from the table and across to the window. He let out a throaty chuckle and tossed his apple core to Jocelyn.
“I told you that Gilbert would come.”
He led the way to the main door and went down the stone steps and into the courtyard with an irritated Jocelyn a few paces behind him. Gilbert Champeney had brought two of his knights as an escort and they waited near the gate. Fulk the Steward was giving him a welcome and holding the bridle of his horse while the visitor dismounted. Gilbert was in a feisty mood. Jocelyn recognised the satchel that he was carrying. It belonged to one of the commissioners and had lain on the table at the shire hall when Jocelyn had gone there to confront them.
“I knew that you would see sense!” said Hamo. “Where’s my son?”
“He is quite safe, Gilbert. I give you my word.”
“Where is he? I wish to see him.” “You are in no position to haggle.”
“Neither are you, Hamo.” He put a foot in the stirrup once more. “I will return these documents to their owners.”
“Wait!”
Gilbert stayed ready to mount. “Well?”
“Show me what you have and you will see your son.”
“Where is he?”
“He can be brought here very quickly.”
“Then send for him.” Gilbert was firm. “Send for him now, Hamo, or I ride out of this accursed place.”
Hamo regarded him with a mixture of contempt and admiration, then he gave a signal and Fulk went towards the ground floor of the house. Gilbert consented to let go of the saddle and remove his foot from the stirrup. Hamo held out a hand and his visitor reluctantly opened the satchel and took out a sheaf of documents. Jocelyn came forward to peer at them. Gilbert would not surrender anything until he had been assured of his son’s safety but he did let the two of them see the first parchment. It was an abstract of all the charges that were to be levelled against Blackwater Hall on the following morning. They would be forewarned about the whole prosecution case. Jocelyn read through it carefully and nodded to his father. The document was authentic.
Fulk reappeared and waited until he got another signal from Hamo then he gestured in turn to somebody inside the building. Through the open door, two sturdy guards brought a dishevelled Miles Champeney, who was squinting in the unaccustomed light. His hands were bound with ropes and the guards had a firm grip on him but he seemed otherwise unhurt. Gilbert started forward towards him but quickly controlled himself. There was more bargaining to do.
“I want the servant as well,” he said. “What servant?”
“The one who carried the message between them. If he stays here,
you will only beat him to death or starve him to a skeleton. Give him to me, Hamo.”
“He is my servant.”
“I will buy him from you.”
Miles had adjusted to the light well enough to see his father. As he tried to lunge forward, the soldiers held him.
“Father!” he called. “Help me.” “Be patient, Miles.”
“They threw me in a dungeon!”
“I have come for you. Hold still a little longer.”
“What is this nonsense about my servant?” said Hamo.
“I am trying to prevent a murder.” Gilbert would not budge on the issue. “No servant, no documents.”
“And no son.”
“Keep him, then,” said the father. “He ran away from me and forfeited my love. I want him back to chastise him as much as anything else, but Miles comes with the servant or you can sling the pair of them back into your dungeon.”
“He is bluffing!” sneered Jocelyn.
“Put me to the test.” Gilbert patted the satchel. “You have seen
what thunderbolts they mean to hurl at you tomorrow. Do you really think you could withstand them without the help that I have brought you?”
“Yes!” insisted Jocelyn. “Be quiet!” said Hamo.
“We don’t need him, Father.” “Stand aside!”
Hamo shoved his son out of the way and walked up to Gilbert until they stood face to face. The visitor had none of the other’s dark ferocity but his gaze did not falter. Hamo stared at him for some minutes before he came to a decision.
“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 exper-tise 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?”
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