The Ravens of Blackwater

by Edward Marston

  “What is that?”

  “Put the knife away and I will tell you.”

  “Keep off!” said Wistan, holding the weapon up as Gervase took a step forward. “You are lying.”

  “Take your chance to run, then,” offered Gervase. “I will not stop you. But ask yourself this. How long will you last out there?” The boy hesitated. “Go and they will catch you. Lower the knife and you will hear what a good friend I am. What do you have to lose?”

  Wistan studied him with beetle-browed intensity. Gervase had an honest face and an unthreatening manner. The boy was so unused to kindness from anyone that he was highly suspicious of it. When he left Northey Island, he decided that Oslac was the only person who might help him, yet this stranger was now offering his assistance as well. Wistan slowly lowered his arm until the knife hung by his side.

  “What can you tell me?” he said.

  “I know that you did not kill Guy FitzCorbucion.”

  “I wanted to!” retorted the boy.

  “You were not alone in that desire,” said Gervase. “It was a common feeling in Maldon. But his death was not your work, Wistan. I would swear to it. You are innocent.”

  The boy was so taken aback by this unexpected support that he wanted to burst into tears. Days on the run had made him fear everyone and he was prepared to kill in order to retain his freedom, yet this young man believed in him. Gervase had never met him before, but he somehow had enough faith in the boy to want to save him. Wistan did not know what to do. Gervase made the decision for him.

  “Give me the knife,” he said. “Show that you trust me.”

  He held out his hand and waited. Wistan realised that a bargain was being struck. Gervase would help him but only if the boy surrendered his weapon. It was a big risk and he needed a long time to think about it, but he finally came around to the view that he had no alternative. Flight from the church in broad daylight would be madness. He was bound to be seen. If he stayed at the Church of All Souls' the priest would not betray him, nor would this new-found friend. Wistan had to choose between being an eternal fugitive and placing his trust in this stranger.

  “Come, Wistan,” said Gervase quietly. “Let me help.”

  Wistan lifted his arm and handed over the knife.

  Chapter Seven

  BLACKWATER HALL WAS LESS LIKE A HOUSE OF MOURNING THAN A CASTLE UNDER siege and it was striking back hard at its attackers. Hamo FitzCorbucion was furious when his charge across Northey Island failed to capture the fugitive, but that fury turned to manic violence when he was told that Peter de Valognes, the Sheriff of Essex, had arrived in town to take over the investigation. The servant who passed on the news was beaten savagely, the soldier who tried to help him was kicked senseless, and the rest of the men around him were put to flight when Hamo began to break furniture and throw the pieces at them. It was left to Fulk the Steward to calm Hamo down but there was only a temporary lull. The sheriff rode into the courtyard with his men. Expecting to be welcomed as an officer of the law, he was instead repulsed by such a torrent of abuse that he felt as if he were having boiling oil poured over him.

  Matilda's anger was self-inflicted. The man whom she had sent with a message for Miles Champeney had been followed and reported. What horrified her most was that it was Jocelyn who betrayed her. While her father was tearing madly across Northey with his knights, she thought that it would be safe to dispatch her servant with the letter for her beloved, but her brother had been expecting such a move and he had put a watch on Miles Champeney. When the meeting took place on the wooded embankment, the spy witnessed it from his hiding place, then brought word back to Blackwater. Jocelyn promptly incarcerated her servant in the dungeon and then took the outrageous step of locking his own sister in her room. When his father's temper cooled, he would earn his gratitude by telling him how he had foiled his sister's attempt to defy paternal wishes and escape from the marriage that had been arranged for her.

  She was beside herself. Not only had she committed the servant to certain punishment, she had also put Miles in danger. Blackwater would be waiting for him now and he would be quite unaware of it. Matilda paced her room in a frenzy, fearful of what might happen to her and desperate to warn her beloved. She blamed herself for her carelessness. Guy had been a constant trial to her but at least he had been a visible enemy. His hatred of Miles Champeney had been as open as it was virulent. Jocelyn worked more slyly to achieve his goals and she had not taken him seriously enough. Because of that, an innocent servant would take a dreadful beating and a hopeful lover would ride into a trap. She was so annoyed with herself that she hammered on the stone wall with her clenched fists until she drew blood, then she fell to the floor and wept bitterly.

  With his brother not yet cold in his grave, Jocelyn did not brood or grieve. Like his father, he was taking action to repel an attack, but it was of a legal nature in his case. Royal commissioners had gathered evidence against Black-water Hall and it was only a matter of time before the family had to defend itself against charges of spectacular theft and misappropriation. While Hamo ranted in the hall below, his son sat quietly in his chamber and went through the manorial charters and accounts once more. He wanted to beat the newcomers with their own weapons and that necessitated the most detailed preparation. Jocelyn stalked the battlements of the law with growing confidence, believing that they might outwit the commissioners with an amalgam of his father's overbearing character and his own acumen.

  It was Fulk the Steward who interrupted him.

  “Your father wishes to see you,” he said.

  “Has he quietened down yet?”

  “He has stopped throwing the chairs around.”

  “Good,” said Jocelyn. “What of Peter de Valognes?”

  “The sheriff has been sent on his way with a flea in his ear. Your father asked him why it had taken him so long to begin a murder inquiry. His language was hot. The sheriff wisely withdrew to town to begin his investigation there and to wait until your father was more amenable.” A bellow rose up from below. “He is calling for you.”

  “I will come at once.”

  Fulk led the way downstairs and was dismissed with a glare by Hamo FitzCorbucion, who wanted a private conference with his son. Jocelyn saw that his father was marginally calmer but still capable of exploding. Hamo was also drinking heavily and that introduced a maudlin note into his voice. He waved his son to a seat with his cup of wine and spilled some on the floor. Jocelyn picked up one of the few chairs that had not been dismembered and righted it so that he could sit down. His father strutted over to him.

  “I am surrounded by fools!”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “We buried Guy this morning,” said Hamo blankly. “My son went into his grave. That surely entitles me to respect. That surely earns me some sympathy. But what do I get? Eh?” He lurched a few steps and swayed over Jocelyn. “I get fools and idiots upsetting me! I get people daring to argue with me. I get that buffoon of a sheriff riding in here as if he is doing me a favour, trying to pick up a trail that is already three days' old.” He emptied his cup then dashed it to the floor. “Why does nobody actually help me!”

  “I'm helping you, Father.”

  “How?”

  “Sit down and I'll explain.”

  Jocelyn stood up and guided his father into his chair. Then he picked up a stool so that he could sit in front of him. Hamo was swaying slightly but quiescent at last.

  “I have tried to share some of the load,” said Jocelyn. “You went all the way to Coutances to negotiate something and I did not want it to be thrown back in your face.”

  “Thrown back?”

  “I speak of Matilda.”

  “Why? What has she done?

  ” “Sent word to Miles Champeney.”

  “Hell-fire! She was forbidden!”

  “That is why I kept him under surveillance,” said Jocelyn quickly, before his father's anger was ignited beyond control again. “Matilda is cunning and resou
rceful. If I watched her too closely, she would have known. So I set a man to spy on Miles Champeney and the fellow's vigilance may yet redeem your voyage to Coutances.”

  “Why, Jocelyn? Tell me. What happened?”

  “A messenger was sent today …”

  When he described the sequence of events, it was all he could do to stop his father from storming up to Matilda's chamber to take a whip to her. Hamo's ire shifted to the servant who was now locked in the dungeon below.

  “I'll leave him there to rot!” he vowed. “I'll starve him to death then send in the dogs to eat the bones!”

  “Forget him, Father,” advised his son. “He is nothing.”

  “He was part of a plot against me. I want revenge!”

  “Then take it out on the right person.”

  “On Matilda?”

  “On Miles Champeney. She sent for him. He will come.”

  A slow grin spread over Hamo's face. “He will come and I will prepare a welcome for him!” He nodded eagerly. “You are right, Jocelyn. He is the culprit here. It was he who led my daughter astray and I've not forgotten his fight with Guy. Yes, that is the way to take revenge.” He patted Jocelyn. “You have done well here. You have done very well.”

  His son basked in the praise for a few minutes then turned to what he considered a much more important topic. Matilda's happiness was of no real concern to him now. When Jocelyn had been at the mercy of his brother, she had been a useful ally against Guy, but the balance of power within the family had now shifted. To advance himself, he was quite willing to sacrifice her. In six weeks, she would be packed off to Coutances for the wedding and Jocelyn would not have to see her after that. Matilda had no place in the new dispensation at Blackwater Hall. She would only get in his way.

  The royal commissioners were the serious problem.

  “They will call us soon, Father,” he cautioned.

  “Who?”

  “Ralph Delchard and his cohorts.”

  “Let them call. I will defy them.”

  “There is a better way,” said Jocelyn. “I have studied all the charters and the accounts. If we are astute, we can pull the wool over their eyes. Follow my advice and we can pick up the law and hit them over the head with it.”

  Hamo pondered. “Will we get away with it?”

  “I think so, Father.”

  “Thinking is not enough against royal commissioners.”

  “Then I know,” vouched Jocelyn. “We have to face them in argument sooner or later. They have documents to hold over us but we have even more of our own. While they have been getting fat on the meals at Champeney Hall, I have been eating nothing but grants, leases, renewals, agreements, and purchases. They came to Maldon to talk about our crimes and forfeitures. Let me contest the issue, and I'll have them out of the town within a couple of days and we'll not be an acre of land worse off.” Jocelyn beamed with self-esteem. “What do you say, Father? May I speak for us?”

  Hamo FitzCorbucion was no longer listening. One phrase had been enough to alter his whole strategy. Jocelyn might lust for the chance to prove himself as an advocate but that would involve long hours of litigation in a murky shire hall. His father believed in the simplest and most direct solution to a problem. He began to laugh.

  “Do you agree, Father?” said Jocelyn hopefully, but Hamo shook his head and laughed even louder. “Why not? ”

  “They are eating their heads off at Champeney Hall!”

  “What is so funny about that?” asked the son as his irritation showed. “They have a fine cook. He will fill their bellies until they are fit to burst. Gilbert Champeney is a generous host.”

  “I know,” said his father. “I intend to partake of his hospitality myself. That is what makes it so funny!”

  Cruel laughter brought the conversation to an end.

  Oslac the Priest was not easily surprised. His vocation gave him an insight into the very worst aspects of life in Maldon and he had learned to take even the most jolting shocks in his stride. Experience hardened him. However, when he returned to the Church of All Souls' that evening, he was met by a situation that even he had not encountered before and it astonished him. Gervase Bret was lurking inside the door of the mortuary to protect the hapless Wistan from discovery. Oslac recovered quickly. He took both of them into his vestry and locked the door behind them. A slightly greater degree of safety had been attained and Wistan was relieved. He now had two friends who were on his side.

  The vestry was hardly big enough for the three of them together. It was the place where the priest hung his vestments, stored the candles, and kept his few books. It had never before contained a royal commissioner from Winchester and a runaway slave who was being hunted for murder. In the hours he spent with the boy, Gervase had won his trust enough to coax the truth out of him. Wistan was certainly innocent Accused of murder, he had no option but to flee. The pursuing pack would not even bother to listen to his alibi, still less believe it. Certain death was all he could expect.

  Oslac the Priest was full of compassion.

  “You did right to come here, Wistan.”

  “It was all I could think to do.”

  “It was a sensible decision.” He ran a hand across his chin. “The question is, what do we do with you now?”

  “Keep him away from my lord, Hamo,” said Gervase. “And there is one sure way to do that.”

  “What?” grunted the boy. “Surrender to the sheriff.”

  “No! No! I'm innocent!”

  “That's exactly why you should go to him,” said Gervase softly. “To clear your name. Peter de Valognes is an honest man. He will hear you out. He will also look after you.”

  “I am not so certain of that,” opined Oslac.

  “But he is the Sheriff of Essex.”

  “I know his position and I respect the man who holds it but he does not have much influence over Blackwater Hall. He and my lord, Hamo, have had many battles in the past and the sheriff has yet to win.” He put a consoling arm around Wistan. “If we deliver the boy, the sheriff will lock him in the town prison while he questions him.”

  “No prison,” begged Wistan. “No prison. Please. ”

  “At least, you would be safe there,” argued Gervase.

  Oslac shook his head. “I fear not. My lord, Hamo, has great sway here. He will bribe or bully his way into the prison. He will not rest until Wistan is in his hands.”

  “Save me,” wailed the boy. “Please save me.”

  The priest calmed him down and mulled over the matter.

  “You will come home with me,” he said at length.

  “With you? ’ Gervase was uneasy. “That would put you in danger as well, Father Oslac. Consider well. Hamo holds the advowson of this church. You are vicar here with his approval. Were he to find that—”

  “He will not,” said Oslac crisply. “In any case, I refuse to put myself before a child in need. Wistan will stay in here until it grows dark. Then I will take him back to my house. It is close by. They will not search there.”

  Gervase was contrite. “You are a brave man,” he said, “and you are right to chide me for reminding you of your self-interest. Wistan has suffered enough. He needs refuge until the real murderer is caught and then his life will be safe.” He turned to the boy and patted his shoulder. “This is the best way. Are you content?”

  Wistan gave a lacklustre nod. Oslac might hide him for a short while but that would not solve a long-term problem. Even if the real culprit were apprehended and his own innocence proved, Wistan could not imagine returning to the demesne of Hamo FitzCorbucion. It was his son, Guy, who had slain Algar and further vengeance had to be taken for that. The priest might hide the boy in the belief that he was not a killer, but Wistan still had murder in his heart.

  Oslac could see how fatigued and hungry he was. He sat him on a stool and found some bread and water to sustain him until the priest's wife could cook him proper food. There was a service to be taken soon in the church. Oslac locked
the boy alone in the vestry and came out into the nave with Gervase.

  “We have much to thank you for,” he said. “Wistan is fortunate that it was you who walked into the mortuary. Anybody else would have raised the alarm and the boy would now be lying dead somewhere in Blackwater Hall.”

  “Call on me if I can be of further assistance.”

  “I will.”

  “The town reeve will know where to find me.”

  “God bless you for your kindness!” He looked back towards the vestry. “The only way to rescue Wistan is to find the person who killed Guy FitzCorbucion. Let us pray that Peter de Valognes does that.”

  “He may need our help.”

  “Why?”

  “The sheriff comes too late on the scene,” said Gervase. “He will waste time trying to track down Wistan instead of hunting the man whom Tovild saw.”

  “Tovild the Haunted?”

  “He was an eyewitness.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “He was about to,” insisted Gervase, “but he was frightened away by the knights from Blackwater Hall. I am certain that Tovild is our best ally.”

  “A dubious asset. Where did you find him?” “In the middle of the Battle of Maldon.” “What did he say?”

  “He spoke in gnomic utterances.”

  Oslac sighed. “Yes, that is Tovild the Haunted.”

  “But he knows. He was there in the marshes at the time. Tovild holds the vital clue that will lead us to the murderer.”

  “Then we will never find him, I fear. Tovild's mind is full of shapes and phantoms. He has witnessed so many imaginary deaths in his dairy Battle of Maldon that he could never separate them from any real one.” Oslac was fatalistic. “Look elsewhere for your vital clue. Tovild will not help.”

  “He will, he will,” declared Gervase. “I sensed it.”

  “His wits have turned. You merely sensed madness.”

  “I must see him again. Tell me where he lives.”

  “On the shore. In the battle.”