The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2)

by Edward Marston

  “Gifts from Barking Abbey. Books and a holy relic.”

  “What else?”

  “That is all. The prioress told us.”

  “Then she is lying.”

  “Shame!”

  “Consider the facts,” argued Ralph. “Would a troop of soldiers go to such lengths to steal a few sacred texts and a handful of earth? And if that is all that those pouches contain, why does the prioress keep them beside her instead of on one of the sumpter horses?” He warmed to his theme. “We did not only rescue two noble ladies in distress back there, Gervase. We stumbled on an intriguing situation. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla went to Barking Abbey to collect something of great significance.”

  “The books and the relic of St. Oswald.”

  “There has to be more than that. Remember that the ambush was not laid on the outward journey from Maldon but on the return. When they had picked up their cargo.”

  “Indeed, it was,” said Gervase thoughtfully. “Your reasoning begins to make sense. Those attackers must have wanted their prize very badly.”

  “A prize that is hidden in those leather pouches.”

  “What could it possibly be?”

  “Who knows?” said Ralph with a grin. “But we will have pleasure trying to find out. It will give us something to exercise our mind on the journey. Ride with Sister Tecla tomorrow and question her. I got no word at all out of her but you have a lawyer's skill in making people talk. She is your quarry now. I will tackle the prioress.”

  “Do not be too rough with her.”

  “I will probe softly till I catch her off guard. You must do the same with her sweet companion. Oh, and while you are about it, Gervase, bear one thing in mind.”

  “What is that?”

  “Nuns tell lies,” said Ralph. “All the time.”

  Jocelyn FitzCorbucion was sitting in his apartment at Blackwater Hall. On the table before him were manorial accounts that required urgent study, but Matilda was pushing a more immediate problem in front of his nose.

  “He has been gone for days now, Jocelyn!” she said.

  “That does not concern me.”

  “Guy is missing. We should search for him.”

  “He has been missing before, Matilda,” said her brother easily. “Do not worry about him. Sooner or later, Guy always comes back—unfortunately.”

  “Something may have happened to him.”

  A rueful nod. “Yes, and we all know what it is!”

  “Guy may be in danger.”

  “He is well able to take care of himself.”

  “But he has never been gone this long before.”

  “All that means is that he hunts further afield.”

  “Go after him, Jocelyn.”

  “He would hardly thank me for that!”

  “If he is in trouble …”

  “Forget about him,” said Jocelyn impatiently. “Guy has gone where he always goes. Our brother is a rutting stag who has galloped off in search of a fresh doe!”

  The force and the bluntness of his rejoinder brought a faint blush to Matilda's cheeks. She was a short, shapely young woman of seventeen in a russet gown that was held at the waist by a gold-braided belt. Matilda had the lustrous black hair of the FitzCorbucions but its bluish tinge was more pronounced. Held in a gold fillet, her hair was brushed away from her face to reveal its oval beauty and luminous skin. She had a gentle demeanour that was quite out of place in Blackwater Hall. Although she found it hard to love her elder brother, she could still be anxious over his prolonged disappearance. Alarm clouded her soft green eyes and furrowed her shining brow. Her tenderness could even reach out to someone as unworthy of it as Guy, who always treated her with cool indifference. She nevertheless cared. Matilda FitzCorbucion was truly a dove among ravens.

  Jocelyn saw her distress and rose from his stool to take her into his arms by way of apology. He did not want to hurt Matilda but he could not pretend to share her fears for their brother. Guy often went astray for a night or two and Jocelyn was glad of these moments of respite. It enabled him to get on with his work without the inevitable interruptions and arguments. Matilda saw it all rather differently and her brother should have respected her feelings. He held her by the shoulders as he tried to explain.

  “Father is due back from Normandy any day now,” he said, “and I have promised to master these accounts. I can do that much better when Guy is not here to distract me.”

  “That may well be,” she replied, “but Father will be very angry if he returns home to find Guy is absent.”

  “It could be an advantage, Matilda.”

  “Advantage?”

  “To have Guy out of the way while they are here.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The royal commissioners.”

  “Commissioners?”

  He gave her a patronising smile then led her across to the door. “Why not leave it all to us?” he said indulgently. “We will sort everything out between us. There is no need for you to be involved in any way.”

  “But I am involved,” she said firmly, breaking free and holding her ground. “I am Guy's sister and I have a sister's fear for his safety. Who are these commissioners and why do you wish to keep him away from them?”

  “Because he might antagonise them.”

  “He has a short temper, I grant you.”

  “Yes,” said Jocelyn with a sigh. “If he loses it in front of them, he could cause us all grave embarrassment. We have to present our case with discretion.”

  “Case? What case?”

  “Matilda …”

  “And do not try to fob me off!” she protested. “I am not an idiot, Jocelyn. I can read, write, and hold a civilised conversation. I speak the Saxon tongue better than any of you and I have a deeper insight into their customs. More to the point, I am old enough to be told about anything that threatens our future here at Blackwater Hall.” She took a step closer to him. “A case, you say? Are we to be put on trial in some way?”

  “There will be judicial process.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Conqueror has decreed it.” He took a deep breath and gave her the salient details as succinctly as he could. “When another Danish invasion seemed likely, King William needed to know the extent and disposition of the wealth of this country. He ordered a description of all England so that he could see how best to raise taxes and secure knight service. Teams of commissioners were sent all over the land to gather the relevant information.”

  A memory stirred. “Have we not already had such visitors to Maldon?” she recalled.

  “We have, indeed,” he said, “and Father appeared in the shire court to answer all their questions before a sworn jury. When they completed their work, they went away.”

  “What has brought them back?”

  “Suspicion.”

  “Of what nature?”

  “We will not know until they arrive,” said Jocelyn. “All that we received was a letter to warn of their approach. This great inventory is being drawn up by the Exchequer clerks in Winchester. They have seen a number of irregularities in the returns for Maldon, enough to justify the sending of a new team of commissioners. Father has the major holdings in this part of Essex so our demesne will come under review. We must be able to defend ourselves with sound argument and legal charter.”

  Matilda understood. Guy was altogether too headstrong for the niceties of judicial process. Jocelyn, at once more shrewd and conscientious, would be a far better advocate even though he lacked his brother's iron will. The most effective lawyer of them all was Hamo FitzCorbucion, a man who combined the aggression of one son with the skill of the other while adding a cunning tenacity that were all his own. He would not be cowed by royal officials.

  “We need Father here,” she said. “He holds the land.”

  “I can deal with them,” boasted Jocelyn.

  “What are these irregularities of which you speak?”

  He gave a noncommitt
al shrug. Matilda had the all-too-familiar feeling that something of importance was being kept from her for no better reason than that she was a woman. It was exasperating. She knew little of the administration of the estate and even less about any illegalities that had taken place. But one thing was as clear as crystal to her: Royal commissioners would not make such a long and arduous journey to Maldon unless there were serious mistakes to rectify. Blackwater was definitely under threat.

  “How much do we stand to lose?” she asked levelly.

  Jocelyn said nothing but his patent discomfort was an answer in itself. She sensed acute problems. Before she could press for details, however, there was a loud banging on the door. Her brother was relieved by the intrusion.

  “Come in!” he called.

  The door opened and the steward came quickly into the room. When he saw Matilda, he stifled his news and stood there with an expression of grim dismay.

  “Well?” said Jocelyn.

  “It concerns your brother,” muttered the steward.

  Matilda was alerted. “Guy?”

  “Where is he?” asked Jocelyn. The delay irked him. “Speak up, man. You may talk in front of Matilda. She has a right to hear anything that touches on Guy.”

  The man nodded. “He has been found, my lord.”

  “Where?”

  “In the River Blackwater.”

  Matilda gasped. “Was he drowned?”

  “No, my lady,” said the steward. “Murdered.”

  The decision to ride on as far as Mountnessing proved to be a wise one. Its manor house was large enough to accommodate the six main guests and the soldiers were housed for the night in nearby dwellings. The weary travellers were given a cordial welcome. When a meal had been served and eaten with gratitude, Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla excused themselves and withdrew to their chamber. Gervase Bret noticed that the older woman kept the leather pouches within reach at all times and took them with her when she left. He himself was sharing a chamber with Ralph Delchard. When the two of them retired for the night, he raised the topic with his friend.

  “You have aroused my curiosity, Ralph,” he said. “I would dearly love to take a look inside those pouches.”

  Ralph beamed. “Canon Hubert has already done so.”

  “The prioress showed him?”

  “No, but he contrived a quick peep.”

  “How?”

  “By sheer persistence,” said Ralph. “I heard the story from him as we sat at the table. He wanted to know what books had been given to Maldon Priory by way of gifts. Hubert was really testing the noble lady and sounding out the depths of her knowledge. She surprised him.”

  “How?”

  “With the readiness of her answers. Our prioress is highly educated and well versed in these sacred texts. Canon Hubert was duly chastened.”

  “That will do him no harm.” They shared a laugh. “Do you remember the names of any of the books?”

  “I took particular note of them, Gervase, because I knew that you would ask. Now let me see …” He lay back on his mattress with his hands behind his head and pondered. “The first was De Consolatione.”

  “Boethius.”

  “Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum.”

  “The Venerable Bede.”

  “De Miraculis Christi.”

  “Isidore of Seville.”

  “Then there was a book of tropes, two psalters, a gospel book in English, a summer lectionary, a winter lectionary, and the Cura Pastoralis of Gregory the Great. Yes, I think that was all.”

  “No hymn books?”

  “None, Gervase.”

  “No missals, no breviary, no book of homilies?”

  “Nothing more. Ah—wait,” said Ralph, as he prised one last name from his memory. “Liber Officialis Amalarii. Did I recall that all right? Is there such a volume?”

  “Indeed, there is. By Amalarius of Metz.”

  “Are these works valuable?”

  “Extremely.”

  “I have listed each one that Canon Hubert mentioned. He was most precise. Prioress Mindred not only let him have a glimpse at them, she proved by learned discourse that she had read each and every one herself.”

  “Then she is indeed a devout Christian,” said Gervase. “But I am bound to wonder what the nuns of Maldon have done to deserve such bounty. Their priory is reputedly tiny yet they have been given the makings of a library that would not disgrace a much larger foundation.”

  “It was an act of charity by the Abbess of Barking.”

  “There may be more to it than that.”

  “There is, Gervase,” agreed Ralph, then he yawned aloud, “but I have no energy to discern what it is. Sleep calls me. We can get no further in our speculations tonight. Tomorrow may reveal more. In the meantime …”

  But the words were lost in a second yawn. He turned on his side, made himself comfortable, and then drifted off. Gervase settled down on his own mattress but he slept more fitfully, dreaming fondly of Alys and waking intermittently to ponder anew the mysteries that surrounded their female companions. The ambush had certainly enlivened their day and the journey on the morrow would be far more interesting now that they were escorting two nuns from Maldon Priory. He mused on the paradox that underlay all of the nunneries. They were the exclusive preserve of the aristocracy, of women from wealthy families who could afford the large dowry that was necessary. Nuns paid for the privilege of taking the vow of poverty. Those who were already poor had no chance of gaining admission to the religious houses. Only the rich qualified.

  As was customary Ralph Delchard awoke just before dawn. He was keen to get them on the road early so that they could make full use of daylight. When he shook the drowsiness from his head and sat up, he saw that Gervase Bret was already awake, poring over some documents by the light of a candle and talking soundlessly to himself. It was no more than Ralph expected. When they reached Maldon, it was the young lawyer who would lead them into battle against any malefactors. Like an experienced soldier, Gervase knew the value of careful preparation and the importance of keeping his mental weaponry in good working order. Ralph was duly impressed by his colleague's diligence.

  “You must know those documents by heart,” he said.

  “It helps.”

  “How can you plough through all mat heavy detail with such enthusiasm? Latin confuses me. Facts bore me. Figures make my eyes cross.”

  “You have to read between the lines, Ralph.”

  “No, thank you,” said the other, hauling himself to his feet. “I leave those interminable scribblings for you to interpret. What interests me are the people.”

  Gervase smiled. Some of the names that had been thrown up in the returns for the county of Essex had caught his friend's imagination. Godwin Weakfeet, Robert the Perverted, Tovild the Haunted, and Roger God-Save-Ladies had all diverted him but there was one favourite, which Ralph was bound to mention first. Gervase braced himself.

  “Humphrey Goldenbollocks.”

  “The Latin is more tactful.”

  “Who wants tact?” said Ralph. “Aurei testiculi. That's how this Humphrey is set down. Goldenbollocks.”

  “A crude translation.”

  Ralph chuckled. “He sounds like a crude fellow and one after my own heart. I look forward to meeting this Humphrey of the Heroic Appendages.” He nudged Gervase. “How do you suppose he got such a name?”

  “I dread to think!”

  “Perhaps they glow in the dark!”

  “Ralph …”

  “What a blessing of nature that would be! Those bollocks are worth their weight in gold. That is how the name arose. Humphrey has probably fathered a dozen children. Fifty. A hundred. A thousand.”

  “There may be an easier explanation.”

  “King Midas slept with him and touched his balls.”

  “Perhaps this gentleman simply has red hair.”

  “Then he'd need red bollocks to match it, Gervase, and the document styles him Aureis testiculi. Red is
not gold. I will raise the matter with Canon Hubert.”

  “Heaven forbid!”

  “I have it!” decided Ralph. “Our translation was too literal. Goldenbollocks does not refer to their colour so much as to their status. They have been elevated above the common stock because they have a feature that gives them the quality of precious metal.” He flashed a broad grin. “Humphrey has three of them!”

  Gervase gave way to mirth for a few moments then guided his friend back to the more seemly subject of the two nuns. Ralph was confident that he would be able to divine their secret before they reached Maldon but Gervase had doubts. If such a skillful interrogator as Canon Hubert could extract no more than a list of books from the noble lady, then Ralph's own efforts were doomed. Prioress Mindred was self-possessed and supremely well defended. Even such a master of siege warfare as Ralph Delchard would not take this citadel.

  The guests at the manor house ate breakfast together then joined the armed escort that was assembling outside. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon had been up before dawn to visit the little Saxon church, which stood nearby. It. was now the turn of the two nuns to offer prayers for a safe journey. Gervase Bret slipped quietly after them into the church and lowered himself to the cold stone. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla were kneeling at the altar rail in attitudes of supplication. They were only a few yards in front of him and their low chant in unison was quite audible. Gervase was shocked. Expecting the same Latin phrases that he himself was reciting in silence, he was astonished to hear the words of an Anglo-Saxon charm in which Christian and pagan elements were curiously intermingled.

  I chant a charm of victory, I bear a rod of victory,

  Word-victory, work-victory; may they be of power for me

  That no nightmare hinder me, nor belly-fiend afflict me

  Nor ever fear fall upon my life;

  But may the Almighty save me, and the Son and the Holy Ghost,

  The Lord worthy of all glory,

  And, as I heard, Creator of the heavens.

  Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Joseph,

  And such men, Moses and David,

  And Eve and Hannah and Elizabeth,

  Sarah and also Mary, Christ's mother,