The Ravens of Blackwater

by Edward Marston

  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.

  He climbed back over the wall and trotted happily away.

  Canon Hubert knew how to put a man right off his breakfast.

  “I am all in favour of branding and mutilation,” he said airily as he slurped his frumenty. “A brand marks a man for life and a missing ear or nose is a reminder that he is never allowed to forget. Be just but merciless, I say. One must make the punishment commensurate with the crime.”

  “Could we talk about something else?” asked Brother Simon queasily. “The subject distresses me.”

  “It must be discussed.”

  “Why, Canon Hubert?”

  “Because I have chosen it.”

  “Of course, of course …”

  “And because it is germane.”

  “So how would you punish Hamo?” asked Ralph Delchard.

  “Most severely,” said Hubert.

  “Branding or mutilation?”

  “Both, my lord. I'd brand him a criminal and cut whole pieces of his demesne away to give back to their rightful owners.” Hubert was vindictive. “I'd also throw the rogue into prison to cool his heels. Nobody is above the law. Not even Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

  “Nor even the King's own brother,” noted Gilbert Champeney. “Odo has been behind bars for years now and he was Earl of Kent.”

  “He is also Bishop of Bayeux,” added Gervase Bret.

  “Yes,” said Ralph brightly. “That fact delights me most. A reverend Bishop thrown into prison. The Church must bow down to the law of the land.” He beamed at Hubert. “How would you sentence Odo? To the branding iron or the knife?”

  “We are wandering from the point, my lord.”

  It was early morning and the six of them were having breakfast together. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were preparing themselves for the encounter with Hamo at the shire hall, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were taken up with the related problem of the murder, and Gilbert Champeney was trying to make amends for his nearbetrayal of his guests by an even more excessive show of hospitality. He had cajoled his son to come along and Miles was far more ready to join in the banter. He had now been told about the deception practiced on Hamo and it had given him a degree of consolation. But the woman he loved was still locked away in Blackwater Hall, so he had a personal interest in the outcome of the morning's session at the shire hall.

  “No punishment could match Hamo's crimes,” he asserted. “I think he should be tried and executed for what he has done.”

  “Come now,” teased Ralph. “You are being very harsh on your future father-in-law.”

  “He has held this town to ransom for too long.”

  “We will put a stop to that,” said Hubert. “He will be dealt with accordingly. We can unleash the full rigour of the law upon him.”

  “But it is Norman law,” r
eminded Gervase, “and it falls short of your own preference, Canon Hubert. A moment ago, you were advocating the use of branding and mutilation. That is nearer to the Danish code. King Cnut also favoured such savage law.”

  “Do not compare me with the Danes!” said Hubert querulously. “They were heathens!”

  “Cnut became a devout Christian,” returned Gervase. “Like you. That is what surprises me about your attitude. The Christian ethic surely has no place in judicial castration or the blinding of felons. King Cnut even prescribed mutilation for women taken in adultery.”

  “God save us!”

  Brother Simon had heard enough. Clutching his stomach, he ran into the courtyard to spew up what little food he had managed to eat that morning. The idea of taking a knife to a woman by way of punishment was too revolting to contemplate. He began to pray for an early return to the bosom of his monastery where the only thing likely to offend his sensibilities was an overheated debate about a passage from the Scriptures.

  Ralph Delchard was amused by the monk's sudden exit.

  “Brother Simon is too easily upset,” he observed. “It has been a bad morning for him so far. He had a fit when I suggested to him that a more appropriate manor for Humphrey Aureis testiculi would be that of Goldhanger.”

  Gilbert hooted with laughter, Gervase smiled, and even Miles cracked his face, but Canon Hubert pretended not to have heard and returned to the fray. Even over breakfast, he refused to be beaten in argument.

  “Law must be fair but firm,” he insisted. “A visible justice is the most effective of all. Every thief who has his hand cut off is a warning to others. Every traitor who is hanged helps to keep the rest of the subjects loyal. Crimes committed in private must meet with public retribution.”

  “Your retribution is legal vengeance,” said Gervase.

  “Yes,” agreed Gilbert. “Look to the Saxons. They can teach us in this as in so many other ways. Their law was based on compensation rather than on mutilation. The only crimes carrying a death sentence were treason, cowardice, and desertion.” He gave a nervous laugh. “And unnatural vice.”

  “They were a warrior people,” said Ralph. “Every soldier was a valued asset. Why kill him or cut him up when he can be used to fight for you?”

  “That is my contention,” resumed Gilbert. “Examine the laws of King Ethelbert of Kent and you will see a list of fines for everything from murder to fornication. Thieves did not lose a hand that could be used in battle. They paid compensation for their crime.”

  “Compensation is not enough,” said Miles hotly. “To fine a man like Hamo FitzCorbucion would be to fly in the face of every principle of justice.”

  The dispute continued for a few more minutes before Canon Hubert shifted its basis in order to assert himself.

  “When we deal with Hamo,” he said, “we move from the realm of crime into that of heinous sin. Evil must be burned out in the flames of Good. I will ignite the torch in the shire hall today.”

  It was a timely reminder. Although the session was still some hours away, there was much to prepare and rehearse. Ralph and Gervase got up from the table, Miles excused himself and drifted away, and Canon Hubert had one last mouthful of food before going off in search of Brother Simon. Whatever their individual views about the nature of punishment, they first had to convict Hamo of his crimes and that was by no means a foregone conclusion.

  “Do not underestimate his guile,” warned Gilbert. “We may have deceived him with forged documents but he will not concede defeat. Hamo will fight tooth and nail.”

  “So will we,” reassured Ralph.

  “The evidence against him is too strong,” said Gervase.

  “That is what your predecessors thought.”

  “Trust us, Gilbert,” said Ralph. “We will fetter this tyrant for you. And if we do, I will ask for a favour in return. Do not deny me now.”

  “You may have anything you choose.”

  “Anything at all?”

  “Name it.”

  “The truth about Humphrey. Is that a bargain?”

  “It is, Ralph,” said the chuckling Gilbert. “And I will even give you a hint to whet your appetite. Look again at Humphrey's holdings.”

  “Both of them?”

  “I speak of his land.”

  “But he has no more than three hides.”

  “You forget his beehives.”

  “Beehives?”

  “I say no more,” said Gilbert. “But take note of his honey render and you will get closer to his name.”

  “We must leave it there,” said Gervase briskly. “You may worry about Humphrey but there are much more serious issues to decide first. We must put all our documents in order and then we must ride off to our appointment.”

  “Appointment?” said Gilbert.

  “We are hunting birds.”

  “Ravens?”

  “Magpies.”

  Advance warning had been sent to the priory as a courtesy. Prioress Mindred therefore had time to consider her response and take appropriate action. Oslac the Priest was summoned at once to give his advice and they talked for a long time. When he left, the prioress called Sister Gunnhild into her quarters and told her about the imminent visit of the royal commissioners. Gunnhild listened with impassive interest.

  “What will you tell them?” she asked.

  “The truth.”

  “The whole truth?”

  “I will tell them what I judge needful, Sister Gunnhild. But I require your help. Nobody else here must know of their visit or suspect for one moment its purpose. You will greet them and bring them straight to me. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

  “On no account must Sister Tecla be informed.”

  “She will be kept in ignorance.”

  “I know you have her best interests at heart.”

  “None more so.”

  Mindred gave a hesitant smile. “Have you been able to sound the depth of her spiritual commitment?”

  “She is responding well.”

  “Good.”

  “I have commended the works of St. Aldhelm to her.”

  “De Virginitate?”

  “We will study it together.”

  “That is … pleasing to hear,” said the prioress with muted enthusiasm. “You are her mentor now. We must work hard to win her soul. I have tried to show her certain privileges to draw her more completely to us. Sister Tecla brought that sacred earth back from Barking Abbey with me. I permitted her to transfer it to the reliquary as a sign of my faith in her. Then we both prayed to St. Oswald. He saved our lives once.”

  “Let us hope the blessed saint still watches over us.”

  The bell rang and the prioress braced herself. Sister Gunnhild went swiftly out to the front door and returned with Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret. The black habits of the nuns were offset by the startling whiteness of their caps, so that there was indeed a superficial resemblance to magpies, and the visitors knew only too well that magpies belonged to the same family as ravens. Gunnhild gave a noncommittal bow then backed out and closed the door behind her to ensure their privacy. Prioress Mindred exchanged pleasantries with her guests, then invited them to sit. She lowered herself into the high-backed chair and waited. Her manner was as gracious as ever and it forced them to wonder if their suspicions could possibly have any real foundation. Gervase was the spokesman.

  “We have been looking into the murder,” he explained.

  “It was a horrific event,” she said. “Father Oslac has told me something of the details.”

  “He discussed the case with you?”

  “Only in passing.”

  “And what did you conclude, my lady prioress?”

  “That the murderer was deeply wicked,” she said with a slight grimace. “To take life by violent means is a most dreadful crime but this went beyond that. Mutilation was practised. The body was disfigured. Only a man consumed by an evil and bitter hatred could do that.”

&nb
sp; Gervase was surprised. Oslac seemed to have confided in her things that he had only divulged to them under pressure and that suggested a closer relationship between priest and prioress than he would have assumed. It helped to confirm the doubts he had been having about Oslac.

  “You are in close touch with Father Oslac?” he said.

  “He is one of three priests who visit us regularly. They come to celebrate Mass but they also bring in gossip from the town.”

  “Oslac seems to have told you more than gossip.”

  “I like to think that I am a trusted friend.”

  “He speaks highly of you, my lady prioress.”

  “I can return that compliment.”

  “Would you call him a true man of God?”

  “Without question.”

  “A lover of peace and humility?”

  “Of course. He is a Christian.”

  “Then why does he keep a sword at his house?”

  “A sword?” Mindred was visibly taken aback but she collected herself with admirable speed. “I do not see what this has to do with your enquiries, Master Bret. Why are you asking me such an odd question?”

  Ralph Delchard tried to speed up the interrogation.

  “Let us go back to our meeting with you,” he suggested.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  “You and Sister Tecla were returning from Barking Abbey, were you not?” She nodded. “Why did you go there in the first place?”

  “It is our motherhouse. I visit regularly.”

  “Did you not have a special reason this time?”

  “That is a matter between me and Abbess Aelfgiva.”

  “Is it?” he probed. “Or between you and Sister Tecla?”

  “Tecla …?”

  Her dismay was more evident this time and Gervase moved in swiftly to take over once more. He had hoped to coax the truth out by patient questioning but Ralph's impulsiveness had now made that impossible. Gervase had brought the murder weapon, which had been reclaimed from the marsh, because he believed it might belong in the convent. The prioress was on the defensive. She was clearly prevaricating. It was time to confront her with the blend of evidence and supposition that had guided the two of them there. Gervase leaned forward on his stool.