“He is conducting his own investigations into the murder. My lord, Hamo, is not pleased to have him here but a sheriff has duties that cannot be shirked.”
“What else?”
Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with Oslac. Like the two other priests who came to celebrate Mass, he was her window on the town of Maldon and she enjoyed the chance to gaze through it and keep abreast of affairs in the wider community. Although her vocation encouraged her to look inwards, she had particular reason to look outwards as well. When Oslac hesitated, she searched his face with shrewd eyes.
“What else?” she repeated. “I can see that you have something important to tell me and I would like to know what it is. Do not try to soften the tidings because we are friends. Speak bluntly. You have come to warn me, I think.”
“Yes, my lady prioress.”
“The royal commissioners?” “They are astute men.”
“What have they found out?”
“Enough to make them extremely curious.” “Will they come here?”
“In time, they may. You must be ready for them.”
“I am under no obligation to receive them,” she said with a lift of her chin. “They have no right to intrude here. I will invoke the privileges of my station. They will be turned away.”
“That would only increase their suspicion.” “How, then, may we allay it?”
“I do not know, my lady prioress,” he admitted. “I seek only to alert you. These men are like terriers. They will not give up their search. They will find their way here.”
Prioress Mindred felt a mild sensation of fear but she mastered it at once and drew herself up into a posture of dignity. “I am not ashamed of anything I have done,” she said proudly. “If I were in that position again, I would act in precisely the same way. I made a stand for Christian love and righteousness. God himself guided me.”
Oslac gave a nod of acquiescence but remained anxious. “We may need His guidance even more now,” he said.
Gervase Bret sat at the table where the documents still lay scattered. Brother Simon had used up nearly all the fresh parchment, but his colleague found one small scroll on which he could write and draw. He cudgelled his brain for an hour or more with only moderate success. When Ralph came sweeping into the hall, Gervase was still crouched over his conundrum.
“They have arrived back!” announced Ralph.
“Miles is safely returned?”
“He is returned, I know that, but his safety is very much in question. Gilbert is lashing him even now. Our kindly host has a most blistering tongue.”
“But the exchange was effected?”
“It worked like a charm,” said Ralph. “Hamo took the documents and released both Miles and that servant. Gilbert took me aside to tell me how delighted he was. He has not told his son that we were involved in the deception and that the documents are forgeries. Miles still believes that his reckless behaviour turned his father into a thief.” He walked to the table and began to sift idly through the documents. “It will not hurt to maintain that illusion for a short while. Gilbert wants to make him suffer the pangs of remorse before he tells him the truth.”
“What of Matilda FitzCorbucion?”
“She is still under lock and key.”
“Will not Miles try to rescue her once again?”
“He will not get the chance. Gilbert will hover over him like a falcon and swoop at the first sign of movement.” Ralph heaved a sigh. “In some ways, it is a pity.”
“Why?”
“Because he would have a much better chance now.”
“Of reaching Matilda?”
“Yes,” explained Ralph. “They would never expect a second attempt.
Last time they were waiting for Miles and he was a sitting target. They are off guard now and the girl will be watched with less vigilance. In addition to that, Miles has a valuable accomplice.”
“Accomplice?”
“The servant who was released with him. That man would have died in Hamo’s dungeon if Gilbert’s kind heart had not pried him loose. He will be more than happy to strike back at his old master.”
“And he knows the inner workings of the household.”
“Exactly, Gervase. If I were the lover and she were my lady, I’d have Matilda out of Blackwater Hall within a day.”
“How?”
“There is always a way. Every problem has a solution.”
“This one does not!” said Gervase, looking down at the parchment in front of him. “I have been at it since you left me here and I am none the wiser.”
“Are you still struggling with Tovild’s riddle?”
“Yes. I have remembered all I can and set it down.”
“Show me.” Ralph looked over his shoulder at the paper. “What are these weird creatures?”
“They are drawings of the things Tovild mentioned.” He pointed a finger. “Is this a swallow?”
“It is supposed to be an eagle.” “This one looks like a bullock.”
“It is a goat, Ralph.”
“Now, this one I do recognise,” said Ralph, jabbing his finger at another sketch. “It is a mouse.”
“A dog.”
“I can see why you are in difficulty, Gervase.”
“This is all that I can recall of the riddle,” admitted Gervase, indicating each drawing as he spoke. “Dog, goat, and grey eagle. Then goose, hawk, and gull. He also mentioned a warbird but I am not sure what he meant.”
“What are these letters?’ asked Ralph, pointing to them.
“Another clue. He said they formed the name.” “G,A,R,I. An Anglo-Saxon name? Gari?”
“No, there were other letters but these are the only ones of which I am certain. I was playing around with others when you came in just now.”
“G,A,R,I …”
“Gar is a Saxon word,” said Gervase. “It means spear.”
“That would point to Tovild himself as the killer.”
“How would a spear sing like a bird?”
“When it whistles through the air.”
“How would it produce the noise of a goose?”
“When it is thrust through the body of an enemy,” said Ralph. “He will squawk just like a goose, I can assure you.”
“There were two or three other letters. Was H one of them?”
“Could it give us another word?” “Garholt, perhaps. If we lost the I.”
“What does it mean?”
“Spear-shaft.”
“That weapon again. It must be Tovild himself.”
“He certainly sings the song of gull.”
“And he is an old goat who can bark like a dog.”
“No, Ralph,” said Gervase, writing the letters in a different order with gaps between them. “Raig? Argi? Grai? They are meaningless.”
“Try that H once more. Change the letters round.”
“Harig … gahir … rihag …?”
“What else did Tovild the Haunted say? Apart from the riddle? The clue we are missing may lie elsewhere.”
“I do not think so. I have been over it time and again. Tovild said that the raven was killed in the marshes. The name I want is locked in the riddle.”
“Who would kill a raven?”
“Anyone who farms the land.”
“Someone on the Blackwater demesne?”
Gervase stared hard at the letters on the paper, then back at the drawings. He thought of Tovild the Haunted and of the glee with which he had told his riddles. A grey eagle. A goose, a hawk, a gull. A warbird. And was there not also a mention of a kite? He dipped his quill into the inkwell and scribbled some new letters before sitting back with a shout of triumph.
“I have solved the riddle!”
“How?”
“Who would kill a raven?”
“That was my question.”
“I have the answer, Ralph. Another bird.”
“A bird?”
“If I put an O with these letters, what do I get?”
“God knows!”
“Higora!”
“Who?”
“Higora!” Gervase thrust the paper at him. “Take a look. The letters all fit. That must be right. Higora! He has given us the name of our killer, Ralph.”
“And where do we find this Higora?”
“With the rest of its kind.”
“Stop it!” yelled Ralph. “You’ve solved one riddle. Do not couch the answer in yet another one.”
“Higora is the Saxon word for a magpie or a jay.”
“Guy FitzCorbucion was killed by a bird?”
“Tovild was a witness. He told me exactly what he saw in the marshes. A raven killed by a magpie.”
“Stop talking in riddles. Give me a name!”
“We must find that for ourselves,” said Gervase, “but at least we know where to search now. Among the magpies.”
Chapter Nine
Even a sanctuary had disadvantages. Wistan soon realised that he had been too hasty to congratulate himself on choosing his new refuge. It guaranteed him safety but only at a price. To begin, he had to stay virtually immobile behind the bushes when the nuns appeared. This was quite often because they used the garden, not only as a place to grow fruit and vegetables, but as their cloister garth. This introduced an unforeseen problem for the boy. The wants of nature eventually had to be satisfied and Wistan suffered the most acute embarrassment when forced to relieve himself-albeit out of sight- in the company of holy sisters. It seemed like an act of desecration and he had the same sensation of guilt that had afflicted him when he stole the sword from Oslac the Priest. Religious people unsettled him. Their goodness was quite beyond his comprehension.
Boredom also crept up on him. Things that had intrigued him were dulled by constant repetition. The nuns led a strange and apparently contented life but it seemed so barren to him. Why did they not speak to each other? Why did one sit on a bench in meditation while another walked around the perimeter of the garden with her head in a book? Who was the stout nun and why was her face hidden? Who was the graceful sister who had crouched on the ground near him and kissed the earth? Only one of the holy sisters had any spirit about her, but her sudden giggles were immediately suppressed by the stout woman whenever they broke out. Wistan became restive. He found the passivity of the nuns weighing down on him. Northey Island had been a far more dangerous place to hide but it had also been more varied and interesting. There was an excitement in the chase even if he had been the quarry. Maldon Priory was sapping his vitality and taking the edge off his vengeful urge.
As evening shaded slowly towards night, he found himself wishing that he had selected another hiding place. Wistan had entered a forbidden realm, bizarre and stimulating at first, but ultimately a handicap. Holiness distracted him. It made him think twice about what he planned to do and question his right to do it. He needed to get away.
Light failed by degrees until the whole garden was dappled with shadow. Wistan was not afraid. Darkness was becoming his natural element now, the only time when he had any freedom of movement. Something else kept fear at bay. He had the sword.
The implement, which he had stolen from the home of Oslac the Priest, gave him a sense of power and importance. A sword was the most prized weapon of Saxon warriors of old and few men below the rank of thegn had possessed one. The spear was a far more common weapon. Swords reflected status. This one had a broad, two-edged blade that had grown rather blunt but he could sharpen it on a stone when time served. There was a shallow groove down the centre of both sides of the blade to lighten the dead weight of the iron but it was still heavy. The hilt had a grip of wood, bound in leather, and a three-lobed pommel to counterbalance the weight of the blade. The long guard curved downwards. The scabbard consisted of two thin laths of wood covered in leather and protected at the mouth and tip by a metal strip. The inside of the scabbard was lined with fleece.
Wistan had grabbed the sword and carried it away from the house. Now that it was time to leave, he decided to wear it properly. A thegn would have slung the scabbard on his left hip from a baldric over the right shoulder or on a waist belt. All that Wistan had was a piece of rope knotted around his midriff but the sword could just as easily and as proudly be worn on that. He stood up and tied the scabbard in place before pulling out the sword. It seemed to fit his hand and his purpose completely. Its balance was perfect. Wistan was no longer a runaway slave trying to defend himself with a crude knife. He was a Saxon thegn with a fine sword in his hand and a noble heritage behind him. For a brief moment, the boy was at one with Tovild the Haunted.
A door opened in the priory and he became a startled animal, dropping to his knees and peering with anxiety through the leaves. A figure was coming towards him across the grass and the graceful movement told him that it was Sister Tecla, but she did not reach his corner of the garden this time. The stout nun came bustling out after her and took her gently by the arm. There was a slight alterca-tion as Sister Tecla pointed in the direction she had wanted to go but the older woman was firm. Tecla’s shoulders drooped in resignation. The other nun kissed her tenderly on both cheeks then led her back into the building by the hand.
Wistan was puzzled but glad to be left alone again. He waited another five minutes to make sure that the holy sisters had retired for the night, then he moved across to the wall and pulled himself to the top of it. There was nobody in sight. He was over it in a flash and running with a long stride up the hill. Maldon was largely in darkness now with only the occasional flickering light showing through a window or under a door. He met nobody as he hurried along High Street with his left hand holding up the scabbard so that it did not swing against his legs. After being hemmed in for so long at the priory, it was a joy to be free again and on the move.
He needed to recapture the full sense of anger that impelled him and there was only one place to do that. Therefore, when he reached the Church of All Souls’, he paused to make sure nobody was around, then went through the little wooden gate and into the churchyard. Eerie and still, it was shrouded in gloom but the sword was his comfort. He drew it out and held it in front of him as he picked his way among the graves. Algar had been buried in sloping earth in a mean corner of the churchyard. Guy FitzCorbucion, by contrast, had been given a prime position and his last resting place would be marked in time by some monument. Wistan went first to the spot where his father lay and he offered a mumbled promise of revenge. He remembered the ague-ridden old man who had no strength to defend himself properly against the cruelty of his young master. The hatred began to bubble inside him again. Wistan also recalled the warrior after whom he had been named. That hero had taken his toll of a much stronger foe before he fell with honour. The boy would now do the same. With rancour in his heart and the sword in his hand, he felt ready for any trial that lay ahead.
After paying homage to Algar, he moved away from one grave in order to attack another and hack at the mound of earth that covered his father’s killer. But there was someone on guard. He sensed the movement before he saw anything and it made him check his stride and approach with more caution. Clouds hid the moon and the place was in almost total darkness but somebody was definitely there at the graveside. Wistan became possessed of the idea that it might be Hamo FitzCorbucion, keeping a lonely vigil over his dead son, kneeling beside him, unarmed and vulnerable. The boy wasted no sympathy on him. Raising his weapon, he ran the last few yards to the grave and lashed out viciously with the sword, only to be forced back in alarm as a whole flock of ravens took wing in front of him, flying into his face with screeches of outrage before perching on the church itself to hiss their curses down at him. The grave had its own guardians.
Wistan fled at once and he did not stop running until he was clear of the town and on the Blackwater demense. He slowed down to catch his breath and exercised more caution as he got closer to his destination. The hall came out of the darkness to stop him like a mountain that had been dropped in his path. Like Miles Champeney, he
knew better than to enter by the courtyard. The wall at the rear of the building was high but he scaled it with moderate ease and dropped down onto the soft ground beyond. He was now at the very heart of FitzCorbucion territory and his hand tightened on the hilt of the sword.
Moving with a stealth that had now become natural, he crept up to the back of the house and walked its full length in search of a mode of entry. The one door was securely locked and the windows were barred. Those on the first floor were well beyond his reach. He came furtively around the side of the house but that offered no possibility either. He was about to double back and try the other side of the building when he heard a resounding clatter as a troop of men came riding into the courtyard to rein their mounts. Wistan got down on his knees and inched his way to the angle of the house so that he could peer around it and watch.
A few torches had been lit to welcome the latecomers and a few grooms came running. Hounds, which had been used to track down Wistan on Northey Island, barked in their kennels or poked out inquisitive heads. The stone trough where Algar had met his death was clearly visible. Everything about the scene stirred the boy’s loathing. Fulk the Steward came out of the house and down the stone steps. He addressed the captain of the troop.
“You are very late.”
“My lord, Hamo, sent us as far north as Kelvedon.” “But with no success?”
“None, Fulk. Nobody has seen a glimpse of the boy.”
“We’ll search again tomorrow.”
“What is the point?” said the captain. “The lad must be far away from here by now. He’s had days on the run.”
“That is my feeling but he will not listen to me.” Fulk raised his voice so that all could hear. “My lord, Hamo, will lead you tomorrow. He and his son have to visit the shire hall at ten o’clock. Some paltry business that will not take long. Be ready to leave soon after that.”
Moans of protest were mixed with sighs of relief that they would not have to be out again at first light. It was a minor blessing but a welcome one for men who had been in the saddle for the best part of a day. Fulk had delivered his message and went back into the house. Wistan had heard him clearly. Hamo and Jocelyn FitzCorbucion would be going to the shire hall in the morning. The boy might not have to find a way to get into the house, after all. If he was in the right place at the right time, his enemies would come to him.
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