The Ravens of Blackwater

by Edward Marston

  He approached the property from the rear so that he did not disturb the dogs who were kennelled in the courtyard at the front. Close to the perimeter wall, he tethered the two horses and proceeded on foot. The coil of rope he brought now came into its own. A high stone wall was easy enough for a fit young man to scale, but Matilda would need assistance to get back over it. So he tied the rope securely to an abutment and let the end fall down to the ground. He tested it with a hard pull, then lowered himself down. Miles was now inside Blackwater Hall. The first hurdle had been cleared. Keeping low, he moved stealthily towards the house.

  The ground floor was used for storage and the main entrance was at the front. Steps led up to the first floor so that provisions could be taken to the kitchens, but the occupants only used the external flight of steps to go into the house. Matilda would now use the rickety kitchen staircase to come down to him, but not before she had first signalled that everything was in order. Miles hugged the shadows and fixed his eyes on a window at the very top of the house. It was in darkness at the moment but his faith in her did not waver. She would come. If necessary, he was ready to wait for Matilda all night.

  Ten minutes was all that she took. A light moved twice across the upstairs window and then vanished again. Miles came out of his hiding place and scurried across to the stout oak door of the storeroom. He was rescuing her at last from the home that she despised. They did not know exactly what would happen once they got over the wall together but they did not care. Escape was an end in itself. All else would follow naturally. They would be together and nothing else mattered besides that fact. Miles was on edge as he waited. It was weeks since he had seen her, months since they had been able to talk properly and exchange their vows. Matilda was coming to him and he shivered with anticipatory delight.

  When he heard the bolt being drawn, he stepped forward with his arms out wide. The door shuddered, then swung back on creaking hinges to reveal Matilda. She wore a cloak with a hood that was pulled over her head and she came willingly into his embrace. When Miles tried to kiss her, however, she grabbed him by his tunic and swung him so violently against the wall that he could hardly stand. A kick from his beloved sent him to the ground and a blow from her club made him groggy. He tried to protest and reach out for her but the club descended again with greater force and Miles Champeney pitched forward into oblivion.

  Hamo FitzCorbucion stepped out of the storeroom with four more of his men. The fifth now pulled back the hood and enjoyed the crude ribbing of his colleagues. The trap had been set and their quarry had strolled right into it.

  “Take him away!” ordered Hamo, giving the prone figure a gratuitous kick. “Throw him in the dungeon!”

  Two men grabbed Miles by the legs and dragged him unceremoniously into the building. They bumped him down a flight of stone steps into a passageway that was lit with guttering torches. They came to a massive door into which an iron grille had been set. A key went into the lock and the door was opened. Miles Champeney was flung headfirst into the dungeon. The servant who was curled up on the ground in the pitch darkness yelled in pain as the body landed right on top of him, and the two guards roared with laughter.

  “Howl as loud as you can,” said one. “Nobody can hear you.”

  The door clanged shut and freedom became a memory.

  Clouds drifted in not long after dawn and Maldon was soon washed by a heavy drizzle. The breeze had stiffened into a gusting wind. Those who could, stayed indoors, those who could not, braved the elements and cursed their luck. Farmers saw their harvest soaked and their livestock drenched. Sailors and fishermen felt the worst of the weather, wet through from the downpour and blown around on the normally placid waters of the River Blackwater. When the drizzle eased, they were the first to be aware of the slight improvement.

  The figure on the shore was untroubled by the damp. His armour was bubbled and his mantle sodden but he still fought on in slow motion, his words blown across to Northey Island on the wind. Tovild was haunted.

  Then came the clash of shields. The seamen strode up, angered by war. Often a spear went through a doomed man's body. Wistan then went forward, the son of Thurstan, and fought against the foe. He was the slayer of three of them in the throng before Wigelm's kinsman lay among the slain. It was a fierce encounter there. They stood fast, those warriors in the strife. Fighting men fell weary from their wounds. Blood fell to the ground …

  His sword-arm flashed and more Viking blood stained the battlefield of Maldon. Tovild the Haunted was fighting well that morning. The rain seemed to refresh him. He was proud to stand alongside the other hearth-warriors to defend the town. Nobody had told him that the Vikings would eventually drive them all back and exact tribute. Tovild was haunted by the wild idea that the Saxon army could win this time.

  Gervase Bret had been to Tovild's cottage and found it deserted. Riding down to the shore, he saw the lonely figure engaged in his daily ritual and paused to admire him. The demons that drove him did not relent when foul weather came. Tovild would go on fighting in a snowstorm.

  Wrapped in a cloak, Gervase rode right up to him.

  “Good morrow, Tovild!” he called.

  The old man pointed his sword. “Friend or foeman?”

  “Friend. We spoke near here only yesterday.”

  “You fought in the battle beside me?”

  “Yes,” said Gervase. “You slew three Vikings.”

  “I will slay more if they keep coming at me.”

  He flailed away with his sword and quoted more of the poem. Gervase dismounted. He caught Tovild's sword-arm with gentle firmness and took his weapon from him. The old man began to whine piteously.

  “I cannot fight without my sword,” he wailed. “They will cut me down. These fierce warlords will murder me.”

  “Let us talk of another murder first.”

  Tovild peered at him. “You came to me before.”

  “Because we need your help. You saw a man killed in the marshes. A young man, stabbed to death by his assailant. Or maybe he was attacked by more than one.” He pulled Tovild to him so that the horse screened the two of them from the sudden punches of the wind. “Four or five days ago,” said Gervase. “Not far from here. I met you at the spot.”

  There was a long pause as Tovild scrutinised him. His manner was more friendly but there was still distrust and caution. He gave a little whoop and turned in a circle.

  “Do you like riddles, young man?”

  “That is why I am here. The riddle of the murder.”

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

  “Tovild the Haunted.”

  “No, listen to me. Listen. And tell me who I am.” The riddle was accompanied by a graphic mime. “The sea fed me, the water covering enveloped me, and waves covered me, footless, close to earth. Often I open my mouth to the flood; now some man will eat my flesh; he cares not for my covering, when with the point of his knife he tears off the skin from my side and afterwards quickly eats me uncooked.” Tovild danced up and down like a child. “Who am I?”

  Gervase knew the answer because he had heard the riddle before but he also knew the importance of entering into the spirit of the game. Tovild was testing him. Only if he talked in the roundabout language of the old man would he get any help out of him. He scratched his head and pretended to be having difficulty working out the answer.

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

  “A fish?”

  “No, no. I'm not a fish!”

  “A crab?”

  “No, not a crab either. Who am I? Guess!”

  Gervase clicked his fingers as if it had just dawned on him. “I know who you are—an oyster!”

  “Yes, yes. That's right.”

  “Try me again, Tovild.”

  “Another riddle?” asked the old man excitedly.

  “As many as you like.”

  “They are very cunning.”

  “I will have to think hard, then.”

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

 
Gervase played with him for fifteen minutes to secure his trust and win his friendship. Always taking time to work out something he soon guessed, he identified Tovild as a whole range of things—fire, swan, badger, weathercock, key, and even battering ram. The old warrior chortled with glee. Someone was actually playing with him on his own terms. He threw a final challenge at Gervase.

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

  “Tell me the riddle.”

  “It is the most difficult of all.”

  “Who are you, Tovild? Who are you?”

  “I've heard of a bright ring interceding well before men, although tongueless, although it cried not with a loud voice in strong words. The precious thing spoke before men, although holding its peace: ‘Save me, Helper of souls!’ May men understand the mysterious saying of the red gold, the magic speech; may wise men entrust their salvation to God, as the ring said.” Tovild clapped his hands. “Who am I? Who am I?”

  Gervase really did need time to consider because he had not heard this riddle before. He repeated snatches of it to himself as he wrestled with its meaning. Tovild sensed victory and cackled happily. He taunted Gervase by throwing some of the phrases at him again.

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

  “A chalice.”

  Tovild was deflated. “How did you know?”

  “The bright ring is the sacred vessel that brings thoughts of Christ to the minds of men during the celebration of Mass. In short—a chalice.” He put a congratulatory hand on the other's shoulder. “It was the most cunning riddle of all. You are very clever.”

  The old man took his sword from Gervase and ran twenty paces away before turning to face him again. He beckoned him to follow. Gervase had at last established his credentials. As Tovild scampered across the wet grass, Gervase led his horse and walked after him. The drizzle had all but stopped now and the sky was lightening. Tovild was skipping as if he had just won the Battle of Maldon singlehanded.

  They eventually came to the place in the marshes where Brunloc the Fisherman had first found the dead body. It was a convenient venue for murder. Trees and bushes were in full bloom on the bank and the river was dotted with clumps of reeds and masses of water lilies. A corpse that was hurled in at a well-chosen point might lie undetected for weeks in the slime. Guy FitzCorbucion had been lucky to be discovered so soon by a fisherman making his way home.

  “Think carefully,” said Gervase. “What did you see?”

  “A raven from Blackwater Hall.”

  “He was killed and thrown into the water right here.”

  “The war-knife shed his blood.”

  “How many people attacked him, Tovild. One, two, more?”

  “One only plucked his black feathers.”

  “What happened? Tell me?”

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

  “We've had enough riddles, Tovild.”

  The old man banged his chest. “Who am I?” He used his sword like a knife to stab at the air. “Who am I?” He jabbed a finger at the reeds. “Who am I?”

  Gervase was to get his answer in the form of a riddle.

  “You are a killer, Tovild. Tell me your name.”

  “I am a wondrous creature” sang the old man. “I vary my voice; sometimes I bark like a dog; sometimes I bleat like a goat; sometimes I cry like a goose; sometimes I scream like a hawk; sometimes I mimic the grey eagle, the laugh of the warbird; sometimes with a kite's voice I speak with my mouth; sometimes the song of the gull where I sit in my gladness. They call me G, also A and R; O gives aid, and H, and I. Now I am named—who am I?”

  Gervase was baffled and he was given no time to solve the riddle. Instead of waiting to urge him on, Tovild ran to the water's edge and fell forward. Gervase thought at first that he was diving in but he was merely hanging over the bank to fish in the muddy water with a long arm. He brought something up in triumph and ran across to give it to his new friend. Gervase was so hypnotised by the object that he simply stared at it for minutes on end. When Gervase finally broke out of his trance, Tovild the Haunted had gone and taken his riddles with him. He had, however, left behind an invaluable item. Gervase Bret knew exactly what it was. He wiped the knife in the grass to get the worst of the slime off it.

  He was holding the murder weapon.

  Ralph Delchard was deeply dissatisfied with his day so far. It began badly when the lusty-throated cockerel at Champeney Hall brought him rudely out of his dream at the very moment when Sister Tecla was about to tear off her habit and submit her body to his passionate embraces. It was not helped by the general consternation that seized the house when it was learned that Miles had been missing all night along with two of the horses. The loss of a nun was compounded by the loss of a son. There was worse to come. Having waited until the rain had stopped, he set off for Maldon in the sunshine with four of his men, only to be caught in a sudden shower when he was too far away from the demesne to turn back and not close enough to the town to seek immediate shelter. It was a wet and decidedly jaded Ralph Delchard who finally met with the man he had come to see.

  Peter de Valognes did little to raise his spirits. The sheriff was still smarting from his brush with the prickly Hamo FitzCorbucion on the previous day. Having ridden all the way to Maldon from some distance away, he had expected at least a welcome and a show of gratitude. Instead, he had been given a reprimand for his tardiness and a total lack of cooperation at Blackwater Hall. Peter de Valognes, a tall and dignified man in his thirties, was Sheriff of Essex and Hertfordshire. He was also a nephew of the Conqueror and brother-in-law to Eudo dapifer, one of the King's stewards. A powerful member of the Norman aristocracy, he did not appreciate the brusque treatment he had so far received in Maldon.

  “What have you discovered, my lord, Sheriff?” said Ralph.

  “That I wish I had stayed in Hertfordshire.”

  “You caught Hamo on a bad day.”

  “Does he ever have a good one?”

  “He has had far too many,” said Ralph with feeling. “That is why we are here. To call this raven to account.”

  “I came to solve a murder,” said Peter irritably. “When I left Black-water, I was in a mood to commit one.”

  They were in the shire hall where the town reeve had provided some refreshment for them. Ralph had the chance to dry out slightly and Peter de Valognes was able to work off some of his frustration by parading his complaints. Under Edward the Confessor, the sheriff was merely a landowner of second rank whose status depended on being the agent of the King. The office was now held by more senior nobles whose position resembled that of a vicomte in Normandy. Peter de Valognes was thus a high-ranking royal officer with a wide field of jurisdiction and he was not being accorded the immense respect due to him.

  “Where are your men?” asked Ralph.

  “Most have joined the search for this boy, Wistan,” said Peter, “even though I am not convinced that he is the culprit. We must catch him before Hamo does or the lad will be slain on the spot at once.”

  “What if you do not find him, my lord Sheriff?”

  “Then we will impose the usual fine on the hundred.”

  “Maldon is assessed as a half-hundred.”

  “Do not quibble with me, my lord,” said Peter. “You know the law as well as I. When we came to England, the King had to protect his followers from random attack. He decreed that whenever a Norman is killed by an assassin who escapes, the hundred has to suffer a fine. Guy FitzCorbucion's death will be paid for by everyone.”

  “That will not content his father.”

  “I have lost interest in his contentment!”

  “Have you called witnesses?” said Ralph.

  “Dozens.”

  “What has emerged from your enquiries?”

  “That is our business, my lord,” said Peter with a touch of haughtiness. “It can have no interest for you.” “It has every interest. Hamo is the chief subject of our investigation. Anything that pertains to him and his egregious family has interest for us.” He
sat back in his chair. “What exactly did the stricken father say when you rode out to Blackwater Hall?”

  Peter de Valognes was quite prepared to describe the encounter in detail and Ralph gleaned a lot of information about their adversary. Hamo's grief at the death of his son had been sharpened by the theft of an object from Guy's chamber, which had great significance for both men. Ralph's ears pricked up when he heard that it was a silver chalice that was missing. The sheriff had nothing useful to add about the murder investigation and it became clear that he would need at least a week to get anywhere near the point that Ralph and Gervase had already reached. It was up to them to solve the crime. A man of Peter's eminence only frightened the townspeople and his bustling officers were all too reminiscent of members of the conquering army that had first moved into Essex twenty years ago. An official enquiry imposed from above would accomplish little. Two men like Ralph and Gervase, working from below, might be able to insinuate themselves into the places where the truth lay.

  “How long do you expect to stay, my lord, Sheriff?”

  “It already feels like a year!”

  “Maldon is a pleasant enough town.”

  “I will think twice before I come here again.”

  “What if Hamo presses an invitation upon you?”

  Ralph was tactful enough to withdraw before the sheriff could answer the question. The storm had passed and the sun was out again but his attire was still damp. Ralph dismissed his men and gave them the freedom of the town for a couple of hours while he rode back to Champeney Hall to change out of his wet tunic and mantle. He needed no escort on such a short journey and valued the opportunity to be alone. He could speculate on whether the silver chalice at the priory might actually be the one taken from Blackwater Hall, and think luscious, highly irreligious thoughts about the divine Sister Tecla.