The Ravens of Blackwater

by Edward Marston

  “I believe that you possess a fine silver chalice.”

  “We have more than one here.”

  “This cup is rather special,” said Gervase. “It has delicate engravings around four inset rubies. It is extremely valuable. You told Canon Hubert and my lord, Ralph, that it was part of a dowry that was paid to the priory by one of the holy sisters.”

  “That was true,” said Mindred uncertainly.

  “It was used to celebrate Mass?”

  “When it had been approved and blessed.”

  “Then why did it leave here?”

  “Leave here?”

  “Yes,” said Gervase. “I believe that you and Sister Tecla took it with you to Barking Abbey.” She shook her head vehemently but he pressed on. “I believe that chalice came originally from Blackwater Hall. That is why the ambush was set for you. Those men were knights in the FitzCorbucion retinue. They were sent to take that chalice back to its rightful owner. Is that not true, my lady prioress?”

  She lowered her head. “No, no,” she whispered.

  “Can you hear what Gervase is saying?” said Ralph. “Your chalice was the property of Guy FitzCorbucion. That links this priory very clearly with his murder.”

  “No, my lord!” she protested, rising to her feet with her eyes blazing. “You are wrong!”

  “Tell us why,” said Gervase quietly.

  “I am unjustly accused here!”

  “Defend yourself, my lady prioress. We will listen.”

  She glanced at the door then wrung her hands for a few moments before returning to her seat. When she had composed herself again, she looked from one to the other.

  “I did not go to Barking Abbey with Sister Tecla,” she said. “I returned with her, as you saw, but I travelled alone with my escort. The purpose of my visit was to collect her.”

  Gervase was perplexed. “How long had she been there?”

  “Some weeks.”

  “For what reason?”

  Mindred bit her lip. “Spiritual recuperation.”

  “What is that in layman's terms?” said Ralph.

  “Sister Tecla had been unwell,” explained the other. “It began as a physical illness but it took on serious emotional and spiritual connotations. She sank rapidly. She began to lose her faith. I was too inexperienced to handle something of this magnitude and sought help from our motherhouse. Abbess Aelfgiva interceded personally. Sister Tecla was sent to Barking Abbey for the care and sustenance that only they could offer. When she was sufficiently recovered, I travelled there myself to bring her home.”

  “With that chalice in your pouch?” said Gervase.

  “Yes,” she confessed.

  “Why?”

  “It had immense significance for Sister Tecla,” she said softly, “though I still do not fully appreciate why. She brought it here as part of her dowry. It was a most welcome gift. She begged me to let her clean and polish it each day so that she could handle it. Abbess Aelfgiva wrote to tell me that Sister Tecla had pined for that chalice and that her mind would be more fitted to return here if I took it to Barking Abbey with me.” A smile of almost maternal fondness played around her lips. “When I gave it to her, she was like a child with a doll. It was touching.”

  “What of those men who ambushed you?” said Ralph.

  “They were trying to steal it.”

  “To take back to Blackwater Hall?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” she said. “I give you my word that I had no idea that it had been stolen from there. Sister Tecla assured me it had been in her family for many years.”

  “A Norman chalice in a Saxon household?”

  “Strange things sometimes appear in strange places,” she said. “You asked me why Oslac the Priest has a sword in his house. It is indeed an unusual item for him to have but it is not as sinister as you imply.”

  “Where did he get the weapon?” said Gervase.

  “I gave it to him.”

  “You?”

  “It belonged to my husband,” she said, straightening her back and tilting her chin. “Before the Conquest, he owned half of this town. That sword was used in battle.” She lapsed back into a more modest posture. “Father Oslac was kind and helpful to me. Without him, I would never have been able to found this priory. That sword was a gift of thanks. It was one of my husband's proudest possessions but it had no place in a convent. Father Oslac deserved it. He is a priest but he still has something of a warrior spirit.”

  Gervase felt abashed. Theories that had seemed quite sound when he and Ralph had discussed them earlier now began to fall apart, and he was reminded with an uncomfortable lurch that their case rested on the word of Tovild the Haunted. What if they had got the wrong solution to the riddle? Or the right solution and the wrong magpie? The prioress had been evasive but with good reason. The nun who she was accompanying back to Maldon had been through some kind of personal crisis and needed to be kept away from any form of disturbance. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla were miles away from the town when the murder was committed but the chalice did in some way connect them to it. Gervase pinned everything on that detail.

  “Before she took the veil,” he said, “did Sister Tecla live in Maldon?”

  “No, she came from Woodham. Not far south of here.”

  “Did she have any connection with Blackwater Hall?”

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Think hard, please.”

  “She never mentioned it to me.”

  “Yet that chalice came from the hall,” said Gervase. “How do you suppose it got into Sister Tecla's hands?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did she deliberately mislead you?”

  “I intend to question her about that.”

  “Could she have stolen it herself?”

  “No!” denied the prioress. “Sister Tecla has suffered much but she is not capable of theft. If she said that the chalice was hers, she must have believed that it was. She is young and very fragile. Her mind has been disturbed. You must make allowances.”

  “We cannot excuse theft,” said Ralph. “Especially when such a valuable item is involved. I think we had better take a look at this chalice once more, if you please?”

  “That is no possible, my lord.”

  “Why not?”

  “Until yesterday, I did not know it had belonged to Blackwater Hall. We used it in good faith to celebrate Mass. There has been no deception on my part because I was myself deceived. I swear that, on the grave of the holy St. Oswald!”

  “How did you learn that the cup might be stolen?”

  “From my lord, the sheriff,” she explained. “He paid us a courtesy visit yesterday evening and happened to mention that a chalice was missing from the manor house. I did not at first link it with ours— why should I?—but the very possibility kept me awake last night. This is a religious house and we will not harbour stolen goods.”

  “So where is the chalice now?” asked Gervase.

  “On its way to Blackwater Hall.”

  “You sent it back?”

  “Naturally,” she said, and a note of vindication came into her voice. “You were unjust in your suspicions of us. We are holy sisters who serve God to the best of our poor abilities. We are prone to human frailty but we are not criminals, and we resent being regarded as such.” She rose to her feet with dignity to signal their departure. “I bid you good day, sirs. Look elsewhere for your thief and your murderer. You will find none here.”

  Oslac the Priest tethered his horse in the courtyard and ascended the steps at Blackwater Hall. He knocked on the door and was admitted by a servant. Hamo FitzCorbucion was summoned from his chamber. He was puzzled to see the priest and even more mystified when the visitor handed him an object, which was wrapped in fine linen.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Something that you will be pleased to see, my lord.”

  “The head of that boy, Wistan?”

  “No,” said Oslac. “It is a m
issing heirloom, I believe.”

  “The chalice!”

  Hamo tore off the linen and held up the object with delight. He scrutinised it carefully to make sure that it had not been damaged in any way. The chalice was clearly very dear to him. It had belonged to his wife who had herself inherited it from her own mother before passing it on to her eldest child. Thrilled to have it back, Hamo was also anxious to punish the thief who took it away in the first place.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “It was left on the doorstep of the church, my lord.”

  “By whom?”

  “I have no idea,” said Oslac. “But I heard that a cup of this description was missing from Blackwater Hall and so I brought it to you immediately.”

  “You did well. I am very grateful.”

  “It is a beautiful chalice.”

  “My wife bequeathed it to Guy.”

  “Who will inherit it now?” wondered the priest.

  Hamo seemed oddly discomfited by the question. Still hugging the chalice, he pressed his visitor for details of how and when it was found. Oslac stuck to his story because it had a strong element of truth. Counselled by him, Prioress Mindred had agreed to part with the chalice at once. One of her nuns had been deployed to place the object at the church door but Oslac had insisted that he not be told whom. When he faced Hamo, he wanted to have as few lies as possible to pass on to such a searching inquisitor. Although the priest promised to make further enquiries, he vowed inwardly that he would protect the priory. The link between the chalice and the convent had to be tactfully suppressed.

  Hamo clapped him on the shoulder in gratitude and offered refreshment but Oslac politely refused.

  “No, thank you, my lord,” he said. “You have business at the shire hall today, I believe, and I will not hold you up any longer. I came but to return the chalice, but since I am here …”

  “Yes?”

  “I would like to see my lady, Matilda.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a house of mourning. I can offer comfort.”

  “Matilda has taken to her chamber,” said Hamo.

  “That is a bad sign, my lord. She should not be left to brood alone for long periods. I was able to give her much consolation when she mourned the death of your dear wife, and I am sure that I can help to sustain her again. Permit me some time alone with her and I will do what I may to revive her spirits.”

  “She may not wish to see you.”

  “Let her be the judge of that.”

  Hamo glanced at the chalice and back at him. Oslac had done him a great favour by returning the object to him. It was a good omen for the day ahead. Two vital tasks awaited him. He had to confound the royal commissioners and find his son's killer. Matilda was an irrelevance now. Her planned elopement had been scotched and Miles Champeney had been driven away forever from the estate. Hamo felt in an almost bountiful mood for once and he reasoned that a priest could do no harm. Even if his daughter were to moan about the loss of her beloved, Oslac was powerless to do anything more than express sympathy. Matilda was still locked in her chamber, tearful and mutinous by turns, but no longer a problem to her father. He decided that a visit from the priest might actually calm her down.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “Matilda is in need of comfort. Spend a little time with her and do what you may.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Tell her about the chalice. It may cheer her up.”

  It had taken him a long time to find a way into the shire hall. Wistan did not wish to break a window or force a door because that would have led to a thorough search of the premises to see what had been taken by the intruder. Instead he opted for the infinitely slower process of cutting himself a way in under the eaves, skewering out the reeds with the end of his sword until he made a hole just big enough to squirm through. Once inside, he stuffed the displaced thatch back into position to cover the hole. It would not survive close inspection but he was hoping that those who came into the shire hall would be far too busy to worry about some minor damage to the roof.

  When daylight began to peep in at him, he was able to choose his hiding place with care. It was high in the roof beams and right at the back of the hall. Squeezed in under the thatch, he would be completely invisible. His view was obscured by the rafters but he could hear everything. When Hamo FitzCorbucion and Jocelyn came in, he would know. The sword was out of its scabbard and resting beside him on a thick beam. He had merely to grab it and the death of Algar could at last be avenged in the only fitting way. The noise of a key in a lock made him prick his ears and tense his muscles, but there was no cause for alarm. It was the town reeve. He came in to check that everything was in order. Servants brought in refreshments and set them out on the trestle table before scurrying back out. The reeve himself soon left. Wistan was satisfied with his vantage point. They could not see him.

  It was not long before two other figures entered. Their voices were raised in argument as they made their way towards the table at the far end of the hall.

  “That is the last time I put faith in riddles, Gervase!”

  “I still think that we were on the right track.”

  “Follow it on your own!”

  “Tovild witnessed that murder.”

  “Yes,” said a peeved Ralph. “At the Battle of Maldon.”

  Gervase reflected. “Magpie. I am certain the answer was magpie. What else could it be, Ralph?”

  “I have no idea, but I am not barging in there again like that. It was an ordeal!” He pointed a finger. “There I was, waiting for you to pull out that murder weapon and thrust it under her nose so that she would confess—and what happens? You never even got the chance. She was plainly innocent of everything of which we accused her. We were made to look complete fools, Gervase. We were wrong about her, wrong about Sister Tecla, wrong about the knife, wrong about Oslac, and wrong about the whole stupid idea of magpies!” He perched on the edge of the table. “What, in God's name, did we actually get right?”

  “That chalice.”

  “It takes a lot to make me blush—but I did!”

  “That must have been the reason for the ambush.”

  “A nun embarrassing me! It's unthinkable.”

  “All we have to do is to find out how that chalice got there in the first place and why Guy FitzCorbucion—it had to be him—was so keen to get it back.” He turned to Ralph. “You're not listening to me.”

  “No, Gervase. I've had enough for one morning.”

  “But we have picked up the trail.”

  “It leads straight back to mad old Tovild!” yelled Ralph. “This is all a game that he's playing with us. Hunt the Magpie! The only bird that comes into this is a great black raven named Hamo.”

  “Calm down, Ralph.”

  “The chalice is back with the raven again! Hamo can don a cowl and pass himself off as St. Benedict!” He went off into a mirthless laugh then gave a sigh of apology. “I am sorry, Gervase, but I hate to be caught on the wrong foot like that. The chalice was the essence of our case but the prioress denied all knowledge of its true ownership. And I believe the noble lady. You heard her. She swore on the grave of St. Oswald.”

  “Indeed, she did …”

  Gervase Bret stared straight ahead with eyes glistening and mouth agape. He was deep in contemplation. He thought about the spiritual collapse of a young woman. He thought about a child playing with a doll. He thought about the ambush, a pile of holy earth, and two nuns chanting a Saxon charm in a church. He thought about a discussion that morning of the nature of crime and punishment. He thought about a murdered man and a chalice and the one certain thing that might connect them. He punched Ralph in his excitement and let out a cry of delight.

  “St. Oswald!” he exclaimed. “St. Oswald!”

  “What about him?”

  “Saxon nuns would revere a Saxon saint.”

  “Where does that get us?”

  “St. Benedict was an Italian.”r />
  “Even I know that, Gervase.”

  “It was St. Oswald who saved them from that ambush!”

  “I like to think that we gave Oswald a spot of help.”

  “He is the link with Blackwater Hall.”

  “Who?”

  “St. Oswald! Do you not see? We chose the wrong saint!”

  Ralph was more bewildered than ever but Gervase was not able to enlighten him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon came in with satchels of documents and a sheaf of complaints. A crowd was forming outside. The intention had been to examine Hamo FitzCorbucion on his own before bringing his accusers in on the following day to confront him, but word had got around about that morning's session. Saxon burgesses and Norman barons alike wanted to be there to view Hamo's disgrace. Gilbert Champeney had also come along in the hopes of being admitted to the proceedings. The pressure to change their original plans and to allow a more public debate was intense.

  Brother Simon was against the idea on principle and Canon Hubert was even more determined to keep the self-appointed spectators at bay. Gervase slowly persuaded them by pointing out that the contest between good and evil, which Hubert had set up, deserved the largest possible audience. Hamo FitzCorbucion should be both humiliated and seen to be humiliated by the people over whom he had ridden roughshod for so many years. Canon Hubert had trumpeted the virtues of a visible justice only that morning over breakfast. He should be ready to open the doors to anyone who wished to come in. Ralph Delchard added his support to this argument. They had come to Maldon to clean up the filth of Hamo's tyranny. The town had a right to watch them do it.

  Hubert relented, Brother Simon withdrew his opposition, and the town reeve was given new instructions. The public would be admitted. As the commissioners settled down in their chairs, eager faces came streaming in through the door and the benches were rapidly filled. Ralph had time for only the briefest exchange with Gervase, who sat next to him.