The Ravens of Blackwater

by Edward Marston

  “My name is Wulfstan,” said the other. “Leave me be.”

  “I must speak with you, Tovild.”

  “We are fighting a battle.”

  “The Vikings will win.”

  “Not if I hold the bridge!” He killed another imaginary attacker then warded off a third with his shield. “Fight beside me, young man. Our leader commands it.”

  “Rest yourself from the fray, sir. You deserve it.”

  Gervase stood right in front of him and the spear was raised to strike him. He got a much closer look into the gnarled face this time. Tovild was ancient. The scrawny body looked ridiculous in the armour and the weight of shield and lance was already making him breathe stertorously, but he did not desist. He was animated by a spirit that drove him on to fight a battle that had been won and lost almost a century earlier on that same bank of the estuary. His eyes flared with anger and his arm drew back. When the spear was hurled, however, it sank harmlessly into the ground beside Gervase.

  “Thank you, Tovild. I will not keep you long.”

  “Who are you?” croaked the old man.

  “My name is Gervase Bret.”

  “Saxon or Viking?”

  “Saxon, like you. We have met before.”

  “You fought at the battle?”

  “We met yesterday. I searched among the reeds. You came out of the bushes to speak to me. Do you not remember?”

  Tovild narrowed his eyes to squint at Gervase but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze. He put his shield down beside the spear then beckoned his companion over.

  “Question me with wise words, young man,” he said.

  “It concerns a murder.”

  “Let not thy thought be hidden.”

  “You said you were a witness.”

  “I will not tell thee my secret if thou concealest thy wisdom and the thoughts of thy heart.”

  “We need your help, Tovild.”

  “Wise men must needs exchange proverbs.”

  “You know something.”

  But the old man clearly did not trust him and he shook his head slowly from side to side. The eyes now had a cunning glint to them as if Tovild was enjoying a game with his questioner. He began to hum quietly to himself.

  “Listen to me,” said Gervase, enunciating his words carefully. “There was a murder. A young man was stabbed to death in the marshes. You saw it, Tovild.”

  “Yes, yes,” he admitted with a cackle.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “A raven was killed.”

  “How?”

  “I hate all ravens.”

  “What happened?”

  “The knife cut his wings off.”

  “Who did it?”

  Gervase put a hand on his arm but he jumped back as if he had been scalded and rubbed the place where he had been touched. The Saxon warrior now looked like a beaten child.

  “Keep away!” he begged. “You're a friend of the ravens. You've come to peck at me. I won't help them. Keep away.”

  “I'm a friend of Oslac the Priest,” said Gervase, trying to soothe him. “You saw me with him. Yesterday.”

  “Oslac?”

  “He will vouch for me. I am a visitor here.”

  Tovild grew faint. “I saw nothing, young sir.”

  “You did. You told me.”

  “The ravens will come for me.”

  “I have nothing to do with Blackwater Hall.”

  “They'll eat me alive with their beaks.”

  “You saw me with Oslac.”

  Gervase was up against a powerful blend of madness and apprehension. The old man was an impossible witness. All he wanted was to be left alone to fight his battle once more. Tovild the Haunted patently knew something about the murder of Guy FitzCorbucion but he was too confused to remember much about it and too frightened to admit the little he did recall. Gervase made a vain attempt to pluck a few details out of him but his efforts were short-lived. There was a rumble of thunder behind him and he turned to see what it was.

  The sight was daunting. Hamo FitzCorbucion had shaken off all the restraints of mourning. He was riding towards them at full pelt with his sword in his hand and forty armed men at his back. It was a veritable cavalry charge and there was no doubt where it was heading. Gervase was forced to jump back as Hamo pounded past him onto the causeway. Fulk and the leading riders went after him in clamorous pursuit and urgent hooves sent up a thick spray that obliterated them as they splashed their way to the island. Gervase dodged as best he could but they came at him too fast from too many angles. The flank of one horse eventually caught him a glancing blow and knocked him to the ground, leaving him stunned. The hooves of another drummed past his ears. He lay there awhile until the entire troop was safely past him and churning up the water on the surface of the causeway. Hamo and his men were thirsting for blood.

  When Gervase felt able to get up, he looked after them as they fanned out across Northey Island. There was no pack of hounds this time. Hamo had the scent of his quarry in his nostrils. It had been a perilous place to be standing and Gervase was grateful that he had survived with no more than a few bruises. He hoped that Tovild had not been hurt by the furious passage of the knights. But the old man was no longer there. The Battle of Maldon had been suspended for the day. Tovild had vanished into thin air like the ghosts who haunted him.

  Ralph Delchard was on his best behaviour as they made their way to Maldon Priory with an escort of four men. Canon Hubert had grave reservations about his companion but he also had a profound respect for his abilities as a soldier. Like the canon, Ralph had been chosen by King William himself and no recommendation was higher than that. Other teams of commissioners had been sent out to correct the multiple illegalities unearthed by their predecessors, but few had their reputation for effectiveness. Hubert liked to believe that this was largely due to his presence in the quartet, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that Ralph Delchard's zestful leadership and Gervase Bret's penetrating intelligence were the key factors in the commission's success. It reconciled him to Ralph. When the latter was not making irreverent observations about the Church or about the appetite of one of its luminaries, Canon Hubert could easily tolerate him.

  By the same token, Ralph had a sneaking admiration for the prelate and for his undoubted skills both as a lawyer and as an administrator. Although there was much to mock, there was even more to praise. Canon Hubert was a man of some renown at Winchester, possessing all the political shrewdness that was needed for advancement in the Church. There were times when Ralph discovered that he had a bluff affection for his colleague and he enjoyed the ride into Maldon with him.

  “What do you expect to find, Hubert?” he asked.

  “Find?”

  “At the priory.”

  Hubert was guarded. “Do I detect sarcasm here?”

  “No,” said Ralph seriously. “I ask in all humility. You are more well versed in the ways of holy women than I. Until we stopped at Barking Abbey, I had never been inside a nunnery. I was most impressed with Abbess Aelfgiva.”

  “We all were and rightly so.”

  “In what way will Maldon Priory differ?”

  “It will be much smaller,” said Hubert, slipping into homiletic vein. “And it will share the faults of all new foundations. A religious house takes time to achieve the requisite tone and spiritual resonance. Prioress Mindred is a devout lady but she has come late into claustral life and may not as yet fully appreciate its intricacies. On the other hand,” he continued, “I judge her to be a true Benedictine who will not allow the laxity that used to bedevil so many of the English nunneries.”

  “Laxity?”

  “Women do not always enforce the Rule with appropriate vigour,” he said. “Vanity is their downfall. They wish to wear fine dresses, expose their hair, cover themselves with adornments, and even to dance within the enclave! It is reprehensible. When they take the veil, they should turn their back on all worldly things.” He rolled his eyes
in disapproval. “Some nuns have even kept pets.”

  “Pets?”

  “Dogs, cats, caged birds.”

  “They are showing Christian love to God's creatures.”

  “No,” reproved Hubert. “They are flouting Chapter Thirty-three.”

  “What is that?”

  “St. Benedict is quite specific. Chapter Thirty-three of the Rule leaves no room for misinterpretation.” He quoted it in Latin then translated the first line for Ralph's benefit. “‘The sin of personal possesion, above all others, should be cut out by its roots …’ St. Benedict calls it a most pernicious vice. I am sure that Prioress Mindred abhors it.”

  “So that is what awaits us,” observed Ralph. “No fine dresses, no long hair, no adornments, no dancing, and no pets. They have to deny their womanhood in every way.” He glanced at the hill, which loomed ahead of them. “There is one thing that has always puzzled me. Why are there so few nunneries and so many monastic foundations?”

  Canon Hubert's detailed explanation lasted all the way to Maldon and they were soon dismounting at the priory gate. Their escort remained outside but they were admitted by Sister Gunnhild and conducted to the prioress's quarters. Mindred received them warmly and motioned them to seats before turning to Gunnhild with a gracious request.

  “Will you ask Sister Lewinna to serve refreshment?”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

  “Thank you, Sister Gunnhild.”

  When he heard her name, Ralph Delchard took a closer look at the departing nun. Gervase had complained of her inhospitable manner but she had been perfectly polite to her two visitors. What Ralph did notice was how little of the woman's face was visible and how thick and calloused her bunched hands were. There was no whiff of laxity about Sister Gunnhild. Her hair was completely hidden by her wimple. Given a beautiful dress, he mused, she would probably take it straight into the garden to bury it.

  Canon Hubert made polite enquiries about the running of the convent and Prioress Mindred's answers seemed, for the most part, to satisfy him. She was very much at ease in her surroundings and told them that she had dedicated the remaining years of her life, without a backwards glance, to the service of God. Ralph said little but showed a touch of gallantry when the nervous Sister Lewinna brought in wine and cakes on a wooden tray. He rose to take the tray from her to place it on the table and thanked her with such a kindly smile that she blushed the colour of beetroot. When she had served the refreshments to the prioress and to the guests, she dropped a hesitant curtsey then went out. Ralph nibbled a cake and found it still warm.

  “How is Sister Tecla?” he asked solicitously.

  “She is well, my lord.”

  “I was hoping that we might see her.”

  “Sister Tecla is too busy, I fear,” said the prioress sweetly, “but she wished me to give you her regards. They are sent to you as well, Canon Hubert.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Are you both fully recovered?” asked Ralph.

  “Recovered?”

  “From that ambush on the journey home.”

  “We have prayed to St. Oswald for our rescue.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them as she spoke. “It was a frightening experience, my lord, but one that we must endeavour to put behind us. These are dangerous times and the countryside is full of such outlaws.”

  “That may be, my lady prioress,” said Ralph, “but this was no ordinary band of outlaws. How did they know that you were coming?”

  “I do not understand, my lord.”

  “That ambush was well laid,” argued Ralph. “When they chose that copse, they picked the best possible place along the way to make their surprise attack.”

  “They were lurking in wait for anyone who passed,” said Canon Hubert.

  “No,” said Ralph. “They might have waited for days before anyone rode by. Those men knew what they wanted and when it would be coming towards them. How?”

  Prioress Mindred shook her head. “I really cannot say.”

  “Perhaps they had a confederate.”

  “A confederate, my lord?”

  “Someone who gave them forewarning of your journey,” said Ralph, “and who described the valuables you carried.”

  “A holy relic and some sacred books. That is all.”

  “In that case, they may have wanted something else.”

  “What was that?”

  “Sister Tecla.”

  The prioress shook her head. “I do not think so,” she said firmly. “Desperate men will attack any travellers and we were unfortunate to be their victims.” Ralph was about to speak again but she moved swiftly to quash any further comment on the subject. “As I told you, my lord, we are making every effort to erase that ugly memory from our minds. It is unhealthy to dwell on such things. Sister Tecla and I are back here, safe and sound, among the holy sisters. That is all that matters.”

  “I agree,” said Canon Hubert. “Thank God for your deliverance and continue steadfastly in His service.”

  When they finished their wine and their cakes, she took them on a brief tour of the building. Hubert was fascinated by every aspect of the priory but Ralph was more interested in somehow making contact with Sister Tecla. He had the feeling that she would not so easily have swept the ambush out of her mind. His hopes were dashed. Although he saw four of the nuns working in the garden, they had their backs to him and thus looked virtually identical. All that he recognised was the stouter frame of Sister Gunnhild. She was using a spade to dig a patch of earth and working with a rhythm and zeal that her sister nuns could not match. Ralph Delchard had never seen a noblewoman doing manual work of this kind before and he found the sight oddly chastening.

  The tour ended in the tiny chapel where the nuns sang their of- fices each day. Ralph thought the place was chill and forbidding but Canon Hubert nodded his approval. Both men noticed the chalice at once. It stood in a small recess to the right of the altar and its quality was evident from the most cursory glance. Hubert was so taken with it that he asked if he could examine the object. With obvious misgivings, the prioress handed it over.

  “Norman craftsmanship,” noted the canon. “This chalice would grace a cathedral. Was it a gift to the priory?”

  “No, Canon Hubert.”

  “You donated it yourself?”

  “It was part of a dowry,” she explained. “One of the nuns included this in her payment to us.”

  “Which one?” asked Ralph.

  “That is a confidential matter, my lord.”

  “Of course,” he apologised.

  It was a question that he did not need to ask because he felt he already knew the answer. The chalice provided a second possible answer as well. Canon Hubert was holding it up to the light to appraise its engraving but Ralph wondered if he might be looking at a reason for an ambush. An object of such value would be worth stealing if it had been carried by two nuns travelling from Barking Abbey. Yet why would it be in their possession on the journey? If it belonged to the priory, it would have stayed there during their absence. He could see no just cause for removing it from its home. Ralph was bemused.

  Their short visit was over. The chapel was now needed for the next service of the day and they themselves had to adjourn to the shire hall to continue their work. Canon Hubert knelt ostentatiously in prayer and Ralph felt obliged to bend his own knee. While they were thus preoccupied, the prioress took the chalice across to the altar and reached up to place it beside the crucifix. The folds of her sleeve fell back for a moment and Ralph opened his eyes to catch a fleeting glimpse of a thick gold bangle halfway up her arm. The prioress tugged the sleeve quickly back into position so that the arm vanished.

  Ralph Delchard was astonished at himself. When he had first met the two nuns on the road, he had been moved by abstract desire to speculate on what exactly lay beneath the habit of Sister Tecla. Yet now, incredibly, he was far more curious about what the prioress would look like without her cloak and her wimple.
He remembered what Canon Hubert had told him about Chapter Thirty-three of the Rule of St. Benedict. Personal possessions were strictly forbidden inside a religious house. The piece of jewelry he had seen was elaborate and costly. It certainly had no place in a convent where simplicity of attire was enforced. Prioress Mindred insisted that she took the veil without a single regret, but the adornment clearly belonged to her earlier life. The stately figure assumed a new interest for Ralph. He wondered what else she was hiding beneath her apparel.

  Miles Champeney took his horse from the groom and mounted it in one fluent movement. He was trotting away from the stables when his father came out from the house to intercept him.

  “Hold there!” said Gilbert. “Where are you going?”

  “I will be away for most of the day.”

  “Why?”

  “I have business to attend to, Father.”

  “Of what nature?”

  “Private matters.”

  “There should be no privacy between father and son,” said Gilbert in hurt tones. “We used to be so close at one time yet now you have become detached and secretive. This is not good, Miles. It is not fair.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Do you still blame me?”

  Miles bit back the reply he was going to make and tried to stay calm. “You are entitled to your point of view, Father.”

  “I have never stopped you doing anything before.”

  “That is true,” conceded his son, “but I wish you were not determined to get in my way now. It's disheartening. There are enough obstacles to overcome without having another one on my own doorstep.”

  “I am not an obstacle!” rebuked his father sharply.

  “Then why are you obstructing me?” “I'm your father, Miles! I have a right.”

  “To advise me, yes. But not to coerce me.”

  “To do whatever I choose!”

  “I, too, have rights, Father.”

  “Not in this instance,” said Gilbert with rising anger. “You've thrown them away. If you will not listen to sense, I have to impose my wishes in another way. God save us! I'm helping you! One day, you will thank me for it.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Forget her, Miles! Find someone else.”