Then the door of the hall was thrown open. Every head turned and every eye expected to see Hamo FitzCorbucion come storming in but the spindly character who pushed a way past the guards was Tovild the Haunted. Carrying a spear and wearing his mottled armour, the old man gazed around in wonderment. He had not gone down to the bank of the river to quote his poem that morning. With the instincts of a true warrior, he knew that the real Battle of Maldon was being fought in the shire hall. The taut silence gave way to laughter and the mockery soon came. Tovild was a figure of fun to Saxons and Normans alike and they taunted him happily, urging him to spear a few Vikings for them by way of entertainment. The commotion was quickly smothered beneath a louder and more menacing noise. A large troop of men could be heard cantering towards the hall and dozens of hooves clacked on the hard surface of High Street as the knights came to a halt.
This time Hamo FitzCorbucion did enter. Four men-at-arms came first to clear a way roughly through the crowd. Hamo walked after them like a conquering hero walking in triumph through a vanquished territory. Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and Fulk the Steward brought up the rear, each bearing a sheaf of documents. Seats had been left vacant in the front row and the newcomers settled into them with an arrogance borne of years of unchecked power. Hamo dismissed his soldiers with a flick of the fingers and then reached up to remove his gleaming helm before handing it to Jocelyn. He looked at each of the four men who sat in judgement behind the table and found nothing to trouble him.
He glared at them with total disdain.
“You sent for me, sirs,” he growled, “and I have come.” “We sent for Hamo FitzCorbucion,” said Ralph.
“I am he!”
“What proof do we have of that?” “Every man here will know me!” “We do not.”
“I am the lord of the manor of Blackwater!”
“Then why do you act like a renegade baron?” challenged Ralph. “Why do you arrive here with a troop of men and force your way in? Why do you appear before us in armour? Why do you try to threaten us with the trappings of your power and to pervert the course of justice?” His voice crackled with sarcasm. “We recognise a lord by his demeanour. We look for dignity and a natural authority. We expect an honourable man. When you come charging in here like this, all that we see is a marauding soldier.”
Hamo leapt up. “I am hunting my son’s killer!” “You will not find him here.”
“Do not provoke me, sir!” “Resume your seat.”
“I am here before you. State your business.”
“Only when you sit down again.” Hamo remained on his feet to show his defiance. Ralph was peremptory. “Very well. We will adjourn this session, if you wish, and call you again tomorrow. On that occasion, the sheriff himself will be sent to fetch you. Show him the contempt you are showing us and you will not find him so lenient. Peter de Valognes would be only too happy for an excuse to place you under arrest.”
Hamo put a hand on the hilt of his sword but Jocelyn and Fulk quickly restrained him. They had a whispered conference with him and held up the documents that they carried. It was madness to institute a brawl when they had come to take part in a legal dispute that they were bound to win. Ralph Delchard was deliberately goading Hamo to bring out his choleric streak and throw him off guard. The most effective reply was to subject the commissioners to a crushing defeat in front of the whole town.
“Will you take your seat again, my lord?” said Ralph. “He will,” said Jocelyn, tugging at his father’s arm.
“We wish to begin the proceedings.”
Smouldering with anger, Hamo finally resumed his seat.
Ralph formally introduced each of his colleagues then called on Gervase Bret to read the list of charges. It was long and complex and it drew murmurs of approval from every part of the hall. The commissioners had been exhaustive in their researches. Hamo and Jocelyn listened with motionless expressions but Fulk could not resist a sly smile. The accusations were exactly those set down in one of the documents in his sheaf. Gilbert Champeney had done them a good service when he robbed his guests of their satchel. Blackwater Hall could be attacked with words but there were no writs and charters to lend them any bite.
“This concludes the list of charges,” said Gervase. “As you have heard, it affects a large number of people in the town. If we can substantiate all these claims against my lord, Hamo, there will be restitution and compensation of a high order.”
The promise drew a muffled cheer from the audience but Hamo cut through it with a snarled accusation of his own.
“You have no evidence!”
“Canon Hubert will take up that point,” said Gervase. “Where is your proof?” demanded Hamo.
“The burden of proof is upon you, my lord,” said Hubert at his most stern and fearless. “When charges are levelled against you by royal commissioners, it is incumbent on you to answer them. We are not on trial here-you are. I realise that you are not closely acquainted with the law, because you have broken it in a hundred different ways …” He paused to allow the general laughter free rein. “… but it does impose a strict code of behaviour on you. We ask the questions. You will answer. As and when directed.”
“This idiot will keep us here all day!” moaned Hamo. “Are you referring to me?” said the indignant Hubert.
“No,” said Jocelyn, seeing the chance he wanted. He had come to demonstrate his skills and not just to sit there with his father’s helmet on his lap. His voice rang out. “You must forgive my father. He is anxious to continue the search for my brother’s killer. Beside that outrage, these claims of yours are petty and absurd. They can be dealt with very quickly.”
“I beg leave to doubt that,” warned Hubert. “Let us take the first charge in your list.” “We intend to.”
“It concerns the annexation of three hides of land formerly owned by Robert of Verly,” said Jocelyn without even referring to his documents. “We can refute this insulting allegation at once. That property was not annexed at all. It was given to us by deed of gift.”
“It is still held by Robert of Verly’s subtenant.”
“Produce him and he will swear in our favour.”
“I am sure that he would,” agreed Hubert. “Under duress. Fear will make a man swear to anything and we have found a lot of fear in Maldon. But we do not need to rely upon the testimony of a subtenant when we have the charter that originally granted this land to Robert of Verly.”
“Show it to us,” challenged Jocelyn. “If you can!” said Hamo with a grin.
“Give us a sight of this famous document.”
“We will.”
Canon Hubert picked up the rolls of parchment that lay scattered before him and pretended to search through them. He nudged Brother Simon and the two of them hunted for the relevant charter with increasing dismay. Hamo was now chuckling aloud and Fulk sniggered but Jocelyn retained his poise. He was growing into his role with every second and determined to make his impact felt. Disappointment and discontent spread through the hall. They had come to see the ravens of Blackwater caged by the law, not to be set free with even more ravenous appetites. Obviously, the charter could not be found. The hunt became more frenetic.
Jocelyn leaned forward with a smile of polite mockery.
“Would you like us to help you in the search?”
“There is no need,” said Gervase Bret, bringing a sheet of parchment from the satchel that lay at his feet. “I have the appropriate charter here.”
“But that is impossible!” exclaimed Jocelyn. “Examine it if you doubt its authenticity.”
“It bears the royal seal,” indicated Canon Hubert. “We were given it by Robert of Verly himself.”
“Step forward and see it for yourselves,” said Gervase.
“Yes,” added Ralph with a smirk. “Compare it with the version that you carry in your own satchel. I think you will find that they match each other word for word. But we have the genuine charter and not the clever forgery.”
Hamo stirr
ed, Jocelyn blanched, and Fulk began to stammer. All three of them swung round to search the ranks of faces behind them for the one that had so comprehensively betrayed them. Gilbert Champeney stood up obligingly and gave them a cheerful wave. Instead of stealing documents from the commissioners, he had been working in collusion with them. Hamo FitzCorbucion was caught in a trap from which even his son could not rescue him and it made him seethe with fury.
“Forgive the delay,” said Canon Hubert, taking control once more. “Here is the charter, as you may see. We have documentary proof of every illegality that has taken place and sworn statements to support
them. Twenty years of theft and fraud have been uncovered here and it will take time to go through each instance. Bear with us while we do so and a great oppression will be lifted from this town.” He used his pulpit voice. “Good always triumphs over evil in the end.”
A cheer went up and Canon Hubert acknowledged it with a lordly smile. He performed best before an audience and felt he had been right to allow the public into the session. Hamo was now impaled by the law in front of him. It was time to exact full and uncompromising punishment.
“To return to the first charge …”
“No!”
Hamo jumped to his feet, pulled out his sword, and used it to sweep all the charters from the table. He was not going to sit there quietly and listen to the catalogue of his crimes. He would do what he had always done and fight his way out of trouble. Turning on the audience, he swung his sword in a circle above his head.
“Out of my way!” he yelled. “I’ll kill the first man who dares to block my path!”
Panic ensued. Benches were knocked over, heads cracked, and bodies sent flying. Everyone fought to get out of his way. A gap opened up down the centre of the hall and Hamo stalked up it with his weapon still flailing. No man was brave enough to stand in his way.
“Stop!”
A boy of fifteen had all the courage that was needed. He dropped onto the floor from the rafters and held up his sword. Hamo halted in astonishment then let out a bellow of rage as he recognised the sturdy figure who confronted him.
“Wistan!”
“Yes,” said the boy proudly. “Son of Algar.” “Wistan!”
The swords clashed immediately. Hamo saw the killer of his son and Wistan saw his father’s persecutor. As the metal clanged and the bodies grappled, everyone else pushed away in blind terror. Ralph Delchard tried in vain to get to the combatants to separate them but even his strength could not force a path through the swirling crowd. The fight, in any case, was soon over. Wistan had youth on his side and a burning need for revenge but they were not enough to overcome the skills of a veteran soldier. Hamo held the boy in a grip of steel, spat in his face, twisted the sword from his hand, then flung him to the floor. The boy lay spread-eagled helplessly as Hamo lifted his sword in both hands in order to jab it down with full force into his chest. But the weapon never reached its target.
“Wistan!”
The name had been enough to ignite the spirit of Tovild the Haunted. When his brave compatriot fell, he had to fight on to keep the invader at bay. Saxon pride compelled him to win the Battle of Maldon once and forever.
“Wistan!”
With every ounce of his remaining strength, he thrust with his spear at the advancing enemy. Hamo was about to bring his sword down for the kill when the point of Tovild’s blade went clean through his unguarded neck and out through the back. Blood spurted wildly. There was a loud gurgle of pain and outrage, then the lord of the manor of Blackwater fell backward to the floor with terrifying finality.
Resignation was alien to the character of Miles Champeney. He could never simply accept defeat with a philosophical shrug. His harsh reception at Blackwater Hall had hurt his pride but it had not weakened his determination to rescue Matilda from her imprisonment in her own home. He wanted to go straight back to the house and force his way in, but common sense told him that this was a forlorn hope. He had to be far more careful next time. Although he had nobody to take a message to his beloved, he had her servant to give him advice about the habits of the household and the best way to penetrate its defences. The man had even more cause to help him now. But for the kind intercession of Miles’s father, the servant would still be locked away in what might well have turned out to be his tomb. Loyal to Matilda, the man also owed allegiance to the Champeneys.
Loyalty was something that now troubled Miles himself. His father’s opposition to the match had been distressing but it had also strength-ened his resolve. When he had ridden out from Champeney Hall in the night, he had experienced few qualms at turning his back on a man who was so hostile to his choice of bride. Filial duty had been cast aside by the urgency of his love. Now it was different. Gilbert Champeney had shown a father’s devotion when he came to bargain for the freedom of his son. Given the fact that he was also bearing forged documents, he had acted with considerable coolness and tenacity, even to the extent of securing the release of the blameless messenger. Yet Miles was planning to betray the old man once again, to steal away in the night in order to free Matilda from custody.
There seemed to be no way to reconcile the conflicting loyalties. His love of his father was strong but it paled beside his devotion to Matilda. She was being blamed for the faults of her family. The name of FitzCorbucion was like the mark of a leper upon her. Miles shook off his feelings of guilt. His own needs were paramount. He had to devise a plan to get into the house at a time when they would least expect him and that required the connivance of the servant. A plan had to be set in motion at once. He went off in search of the man but could not find him anywhere in the house. Miles came out into the courtyard and crossed to the stables.
He was about to call out for the servant when he was distracted. A lone figure was riding slowly towards the house in the middle distance. He thought at first that it must be his father, returning from a morning at the shire hall, but the posture of the rider and the gentle gait of the horse soon changed his mind. It was a woman. When she got closer, Miles saw that it was a young woman. For a moment, he could not believe what he was looking at and blinked in wonderment. He could recognise her profile, her attire, even her palfrey. She waved to him. He had spent all that time trying to plot her rescue and Matilda FitzCorbucion was now coming towards him. It was the answer to a prayer. Miles let out a gasp of joy and sprinted across the grass to meet her, grabbing the bridle of her horse, then catching her in his arms when she dropped down to him.
They held each other in a fierce embrace and kissed away the long separation. Miles Champeney did not know whether to laugh or cry as he clutched her to him.
“How on earth did you escape?” he asked. “I went to church.”
“Church?”
“Yes,” she said. “Father Oslac looked the other way.”
Prioress Mindred was in her quarters with Sister Lewinna when the bell rang, trying to still the nun’s waywardness with some kind words of advice and suggesting that the homely wisdom of Aesop’s Fables should be supplemented with a study of Aldhelm’s De Virginitate. Visitors were not expected. Sister Lewinna was sent to answer the door and returned breathlessly with the news that Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were insisting on another interview with the prioress. Mindred composed herself and told the young nun to conduct the visitors in to her. Sister Lewinna obeyed at once then left the three of them alone.
The guests were invited to sit down and the prioress lowered herself into her chair. Having believed that she had routed them, she was disturbed by their return and by the quiet determination of their manner.
“We are sorry to intrude once more,” said Ralph, “but it was unavoidable. We believe that what we are seeking is within the walls of this convent, after all.”
“I thought I dealt with all your enquiries,” she said.
“You did, my lady prioress, but there was something that you held back from us, something of crucial importance.” She shifted uneasily on her chair. “Bef
ore we come to that, however, there is something you should know because it has a bearing on our visit. Hamo FitzCorbucion is dead.”
“Dead!” She was aghast. “When did this happen?”
Ralph gave a terse account of events at the shire hall that morning and explained that Tovild the Haunted had been taken into custody by the sheriff. The circumstances had forced a postponement of their own deliberations and enabled them to address themselves to a related problem. Hamo had been killed by a mad old man, but his son’s murderer was still at large and had to be brought to justice. Prioress Mindred listened with evident discomfort and steeled herself.
“St. Oswald brought us back here,” said Ralph. “He has helped us just as he once helped you. Gervase will explain.”
“That chalice gave us a link with Blackwater Hall,” said Gervase. “When we put a chalice and a raven together, we had the emblem of St. Benedict and that seemed to sit easily on a Benedictine house like this. But St. Oswald has an emblem as well.”
“Raven and ring,” she said dully.
“That is what the chalice was,” said Gervase. “A ring. It was a token of love given by Guy FitzCorbucion to Sister Tecla. It was the most valuable thing he possessed and he offered it to her in order to win her favours. Other ladies succumbed readily to his charms, it seems, but Sister Tecla-or Tecla, as she then was-held him at bay until he gave her a promise of marriage.”
“The chalice was that promise,” said Ralph.
“A ring to mark their betrothal,” continued Gervase. “When she submitted to him, he soon tired of her and demanded the return of his gift. Tecla refused but she knew that she could not hold out against a FitzCorbucion. She fled to the only place of refuge-this priory.”
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