The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2)

by Edward Marston

  Far below them, the Blackwater estuary was patrolled by gulls, oystercatchers, and honking geese. The thick ribbon of water twisted leisurely towards the sea and Gervase could pick out a couple of small boats navigating their way past Osea Island against the tidal flow. The priory stood on a patch of land near the lower end of High Street and thus overlooked the Hythe, the town's harbour, and its adjacent Church of St. Mary's. He was fascinated to see the little convent, which seven nuns shared with Prioress Mindred. It was a single-storey building of wood, reinforced with stone and set at right angles to a tiny stone-built chapel. The houses in the town had almost no land attached to them but the priory boasted the best part of an acre, most of it given over to a walled garden. Gervase realised why the property had not been recorded by the first team of commissioners. When they visited Maldon a year or so earlier, the priory had not existed. It was one of many features of the town that the original survey had perforce omitted.

  Fatigued by the journey himself, Gervase knew that the two women must be exhausted but there was no sign of it in their gentle smiles and their upright posture. As travelling companions, they had been pleasant and uncomplaining, although he was still none the wiser about the true purpose of their visit to Barking Abbey. When they reached the gate, Gervase dismounted quickly so that he could help the prioress down from her horse. She thanked him profusely and he turned to perform the same service for Sister Tecla, holding her mount with one hand while offering her the support of the other. Although she said nothing, there was such warm gratitude in her manner that he was amply rewarded. He was no longer being blamed for his earlier overeagerness in questioning her. Sister Tecla had clearly forgiven him.

  The gate of the priory opened and a stout figure of middle height stepped out to greet the two women. Her body seemed about to burst out of her habit but her face was so completely enclosed by her wimple that only a few inches of flesh were visible around a pair of steely eyes. Prioress Mindred allowed no more than a token kiss but Sister Tecla was given a welcoming embrace. It was not extended to Gervase Bret. As the nun's gaze fell on him, it hardened into abstract hostility. “This is Sister Gunnhild,” introduced the prioress.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  Gervase inclined his head politely but he got no more than a curt nod in return. Sister Gunnhild was too old to bother with pretence and social nicety. She disliked men.

  Like its eccentric owner, Champeney Hall was a weird mixture of Norman and Saxon, with a strong bias towards the former held in check by an unexpected nostalgia for the latter. To all outward appearances, the manor house was the archetypal dwelling of a thegn, a long, low building that was constructed of heavy timber and roofed with shingled wood. Internally, it bore no resemblance to the home that had served the Saxon lord who built it. In those days, the hall was divided into a series of bays, which acted as separate living quarters for the thegn, his family, his servants, his farm labourers, and even some of his livestock. Gilbert Champeney made radical alterations to that scheme of things. His home was neatly partitioned by stone walls with solid doors and he had raised the slope of the roof at the rear of the property so that it was possible to move around each chamber without banging a head against a rafter. A large, twostorey, stone-built wing had been added so that the simplicity of the Saxon hall was offset by the brooding sophistication of a Norman keep.

  Gilbert himself was a generous and willing host.

  “My home is yours, sirs,” he said.

  “We are indebted to you, my lord,” said Canon Hubert.

  “Indebted,” repeated Brother Simon obsequiously.

  Looking around, Ralph shrugged. “Why not burn the whole place down and build a proper Norman manor house?”

  “Because this is not Normandy,” replied Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “There is no point in destruction for its own sake. Preserve what is worth preserving—that is my belief. Our king follows the same precept. The Saxons had an established legal code so he largely kept it. They had a sound currency so he retained its organisation. They had an excellent system of taxation so he extended it.” The nervous laugh was more of a snigger this time. “And it is that which has brought you all to Maldon. Taxation. Saxon common sense refined by Norman efficiency. Just like my home.”

  Gilbert Champeney was a short, bustling, bald-headed man with watery blue eyes and a mobile face. Now well into his fifties, he still had the boyish enthusiasm for any project in which he was engaged and an uncomplicated ability to enjoy his life. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe that he had, like Ralph, fought with the Conqueror at Hastings. Ralph still had the unmistakable stamp of a soldier, but Gilbert seemed too soft and affable ever to have borne arms. Twenty years of living in Essex had infected him with a fondness for the nation he had helped to displace. The visitors were quick to note that his tunic had a Saxon cut to it and that he was in the process of trying to grow a beard.

  “You will no doubt be hungry,” he said.

  “Yes!” replied Ralph.

  “Famished,” said Canon Hubert.

  “Then I have a treat for you. Although I have kept a Saxon reeve to run my estate and Saxon men to work it, I felt I could not survive without a Norman cook. He is at this moment roasting some steaks of beef on a spit and preparing a sauce with red wine, juice of Seville oranges, and a pinch each of ground black pepper and ginger.”

  Hubert's stomach rumbled in appreciation. “With a sprinkling of cinnamon?” he said hopefully.

  “Of course.”

  The canon could believe in Heaven once more.

  Gilbert first called for servants to conduct the men to their respective chambers so that they could deposit all the baggage that they had brought with them. The soldiers were also shown to their quarters, much more cramped, but adequate for their purposes. Gervase Bret arrived with the other half of the armed escort in time to join his colleagues for the sumptuous meal. He warmed to their host at once. Gilbert Champeney's hospitality had been sought because he was one of the few Norman magnates in the area who was not involved in their investigation. While others grabbed what they could and defended their illegal acquisitions with lies, forgeries, or open aggression, the lord of this manor was content with what he possessed. He had a quality that set him apart from other Norman barons. He needed to live in harmony with the Saxon people. Gilbert wanted to be liked.

  “How long will you stay in Maldon?” he said.

  “For as long as your cook will favour us,” said Hubert as he stuffed boiled cabbage into his mouth. “We had not thought to find such quality in the food.”

  “I cannot eat a thing,” said the emaciated Simon.

  Hubert grunted. “Then you are a fool.”

  “Self-denial is a virtue.”

  “Well-fed men have more strength to serve God.”

  “You have said that indulgence is a sin, Canon Hubert.”

  “Yes, Brother Simon,” conceded the other. “But this is not indulgence.

  To refuse the offer of such a repast is an insult to the kindness of our host.”

  “I go along with that,” said Ralph, sipping wine from his cup. “Hubert and I have at last found something about which we can agree.” He turned back to Gilbert. “To answer your question, my lord, we will remain here until we have finished our allotted work. It is quite straightforward.”

  “Whom does it mostly concern?” asked Gilbert.

  “Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

  “Then it is not straightforward at all, I fear.”

  “Why not?” asked Gervase.

  “Hamo has not yet returned from Coutances.”

  “Then his elder son must speak for him,” said Ralph.

  “That, too, presents a slight complication.”

  “What is it?”

  Gilbert Champeney picked at his teeth and waited till he had their full attention. He enjoyed delivering tidings that would have such an important bearing on the work of the royal commissioners. Another ner
vous laugh slipped out.

  “Guy FitzCorbucion has been murdered.”

  “Why are they calling it Domesday Book?” asked Matilda. “That need not trouble you,” said her brother.

  “I wish to know, Jocelyn. Tell me.”

  “When I have more time.”

  “It is a simple question.”

  “And I will give you a simple answer. In due course.”

  “Now,” she insisted.

  “Matilda …”

  “Now!”

  Jocelyn FitzCorbucion clicked his tongue in irritation. He and the steward were about to leave Blackwater Hall when his sister intercepted them. Matilda was now standing in the doorway to obstruct their exit. The dove-like softness had been shed in favour of a hardfaced persistence. She was frustrated at being excluded from everything of importance that happened on the estate. It was time for her to find out exactly what was going on. Matilda folded her arms and stuck out a combative chin.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  The two men exchanged a glance. Jocelyn heaved a sigh.

  “Explain it to her, Fulk,” he said.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  The steward was a fleshy man in his thirties with a smirking politeness. He had been employed on the demesne long enough to learn all its dark secrets and he was as adept at enforcing his master's writ among the villeins and serfs on the estate as he was at dealing with the finer points of the manorial accounts. Fulk was not used to having to answer to a woman. It put the merest hint of annoyance into his voice.

  “King William calls it a description of England,” he said, “but it is known as the Domesday Book in the shires because it is like the Last Judgement. These commissioners want to know everything.”

  Jocelyn was brusque. “There, Matilda. You have had your explanation. Now, stand aside.”

  “One moment,” she said.

  “You are in our way.”

  “The Last Judgement will weigh our sins. Is that why you are being arraigned? For some sinful acts?”

  “We are not being arraigned,” he said defencively.

  “Indeed not,” added Fulk smoothly. “Your brother and I merely attend a meeting at the shire hall this afternoon. The town reeve has summoned all people of consequence in Maldon so that we may hear what these commissioners have to say.” He gestured towards the door. “If you prevent us from leaving, we will be late for the gathering and that might be interpreted as a deliberate affront to them.”

  She stood her ground. “Who are these commissioners?”

  “Powerful men with a royal warrant,” said Jocelyn.

  “Father would keep them waiting.”

  “I will handle this my way, Matilda.”

  “He'd send a dusty answer to the King himself.”

  “We have to leave. Please excuse us.”

  Jocelyn tried to brush past her to get to the door but she shifted her position to block his way once more.

  “Where are these commissioners staying?” she asked.

  “At Champeney Hall.”

  She recoiled slightly at the name and her resistance faded at once. Matilda stepped aside to let them pass and stood pensively in the open doorway as they went down the stone steps into the courtyard. Jocelyn was angry at having been challenged in that way in front of the steward. For the first time in his entire life, he was in a position of real authority at Blackwater Hall and it was being eroded by a mere woman. He loved his sister and he wanted to help her get over the shock of their brother's sudden death but he could not tolerate such interference. It weakened his standing. He tried to pass off the incident with a forced laugh.

  “Women!” he moaned. “They have to be humoured.”

  “Sometimes, my lord.”

  “Matilda will not be able to hinder us much longer. When my father returns, he will have a surprise for her.”

  “I know.”

  “He went to Normandy to arrange a marriage for her. Father will bring back the name of her future husband.”

  “She needs a man to control her,” said Fulk.

  The steward's tone was deferential but there was an implied rebuke for Jocelyn in his comment. Fulk was more accustomed to the forcefulness of a Hamo or the arrogance of a Guy. He was not so far impressed by the softer edge of Jocelyn FitzCorbucion. The latter winced inwardly and resolved to show greater firmness.

  His opportunity came immediately. Grooms had the horses saddled and waiting for them. As the two men mounted, there was a clatter of hooves and eight knights came cantering into the courtyard on their destriers. They reined in their mounts, who stood in a sweating half circle around Jocelyn.

  “Have you caught him yet?” he snarled.

  “No, my lord,” said the captain.

  “Search harder.”

  “We have been out since first light.”

  “Find that boy!”

  “Wistan ran off the night before last,” explained the captain. “The lad has strong legs. He could be several miles away by now.”

  “Widen the search. I want him hunted down.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Question the other slaves.”

  “We have done so.”

  “They must know where he is.”

  “All of them deny it.”

  “Beat the truth out of them!” ordered Jocelyn, waving a fist. “Take more men and continue the search at once. That boy killed my brother. He will pay dearly for that. Get back out there. Look under every stone in the county until you find him!”

  Wistan had chosen his escape route well. They would not expect him to be on the island. Throughout the night, the causeway was submerged by the tide and the dark water would deter anyone without a boat and a knowledge of the currents. A whole day had come and gone without any sign of pursuit. Evidently, they were searching on the mainland for a boy who could run instead of on Northey for one who could swim. Well into a second day in hiding, he began to feel a little safer. The island was large and the population sparse. He had over five hundred acres in which to roam. When his food ran out, he could forage for more. Wistan would live from day to day. Survival was all.

  With a vague sense of security came a tattered dignity. He had deceived them. The son of a slave had outwitted the knights from Blackwater Hall. He could never take them on in direct combat because he was hopelessly outnumbered, but he could wrest some smattering of honour from the contest. Wistan could make his father proud of him from beyond the grave. He remembered why Algar had given him his name and what its significance was at the Battle of Maldon. Wistan was a hero. The Vikings had bided their time at the very place where he himself was now lurking. When they were allowed to cross at low tide by means of the causeway, they came up against the full strength of the Saxon fyrd, the army that had been raised to defend the town. Wistan had been at the forefront of the struggle. He had accounted for three Vikings before he was cut down by the invaders.

  Guy FitzCorbucion was an invader and he was dead. The boy felt a warm glow inside him every time he savoured that thought. He wanted to destroy all the ravens of Blackwater. They might catch him in the end but he hoped to take full revenge first. Like the Wistan of old, he intended to fight to the death and take some of the vile invaders with him. His own father had shown him the way. Algar had gone down with a last brave show of spirit. As the boy recalled it now, it buttressed his resolution. He thought about the way that he would best like to kill Hamo FitzCorbucion.

  A snuffling sound brought him out of his reverie and he huddled into his hiding place in the long grass. They were searching for him on the island, after all. He could see nothing from his burrow but the sound was slowly getting closer. Wistan grabbed the crude knife that was tucked in his belt. He would have to live up to his namesake sooner than he had anticipated but he was not afraid. Excitement made his heart thud and his temples pound. He held his breath as the snuffling got louder and the grass was trampled. He lay curled in a ball until his adversary was almost upon him and then
he unwound like a spring, rising up on his knees and using the knife to jab with vicious force.

  He caught the sheep a glancing blow on its shoulder and blood oozed swiftly into its fleece. With a leap in the air and a bleat of pain, it went careering across the field to join the rest of the herd. Wistan was both stunned and relieved. He was sorry to have wounded the animal but glad that he had not been run to earth. There was no sign of a human being but sheep were now grazing all over the area. It was time to find a new hiding place. Gathering his meagre belongings, he crept through the grass with the stealth of a fox. Wistan was the quarry in a murder hunt but that prospect did not trouble him any more. It had started to be exhilarating.

  The shire hall occupied a prime position near the junction of Silver Street and High Street. Timber-framed and roofed with thatch, it was a large building with a murky interior that smelled in equal parts of dampness, decay, and some unspecified farm animal. A sparrow was hopping along the rafters and spiders had turned the whole of the ceiling into a continuous and interconnecting series of elaborate webs. The walls were roughly plastered and some attempt had been made to decorate them with simple patterns. There were several windows but they seemed to keep out more light than they admitted. The hall was built solely for communal use. Comfort and decoration were afterthoughts.

  “I wonder if he will turn up,” mused Ralph Delchard.

  “Who?” said Gervase Bret.

  “Humphrey Goldenbollocks.”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  “We could do with him in tins gloom,” observed Ralph with a glance around. “He can stand on the table here and shed light on the whole business by displaying his golden orbs. The meeting will be illuminated by bollock light. Yes, I do hope that Humphrey will come.”

  “I am more interested in someone else,” confessed Gervase.

  “Sister Tecla, by any chance?”

  “No, Ralph!”

  “She liked you, I could tell.”

  “I will probably never see her again.”

  “She'll contrive a tryst somehow,” teased the other. “Nuns do not place their affections lightly.” The musty atmosphere made him cough. “So who are you interested in meeting in this miserable cave of a hall?”