They were a hundred yards or more away when he first sighted them and he reined his horse in behind the cover of some bushes. Three men were cantering towards Champeney Hall and they soon passed close enough to him for Ralph to recognise their leader. It was Fulk the Steward, the man who had accompanied Jocelyn FitzCorbucion to the shire hall on that first afternoon. He rode with the air of a man on an important errand and Ralph wondered what it might be. Gilbert Champeney loved the whole world but even his spacious affection could not accommodate Black-water Hall. The very sight of these emissaries would make the mild-mannered Gilbert froth with rage.
Ralph followed at a discreet distance and watched them ride into the courtyard. By the time that he had stabled his horse, the three men had disappeared into the house. Ralph let himself in quietly and went up to his chamber. Raised voices could be heard from below and then a door banged. When he crossed to the window, he saw Fulk and the two men walking towards their mounts. The steward seemed to be in high humour as he rode off the premises. Ralph slipped out of his wet apparel and found a clean tunic. He was about to put it on when he heard a soft creak on the stairs outside. Somebody was approaching the chamber with a furtive step and he reached instinctively for his sword, moving into an alcove to conceal himself.
There was a tap on the door to make sure that the room was unoccupied and then someone entered. Ralph drew himself right back into the alcove and listened. The intruder went straight to the satchel in which Gervase Bret carried all of his writs and charters. Ralph heard the leather strap being undone and the rustle of parchment. The thief was trying to steal their documentary evidence. Without that, the commissioners would be severely handicapped in their forthcoming tussle with Hamo. Ralph was furious. Hurling himself out of the alcove, he threw his back against the door so that it slammed shut, then held his sword at the throat of the man who was taking their property.
Gilbert Champeney turned white with guilt then fell to his knees in supplication and burst in tears.
“Ralph!” he exclaimed. “Thank God! Please help me!”
They were together at last and yet kept cruelly apart. She knew that he was there. From her chamber window, Matilda could see the two horses down in the courtyard of Blackwater Hall. Miles Champeney had come for her during the night and been taken prisoner by her father. The two horses on which they would have ridden away were now drinking contentedly from the water trough. She was trembling with impotent rage. Matilda blamed her father for his ruthlessness and her brother for his duplicity, but she reserved the greatest scorn for herself. It was her fault that Miles had been captured. The man she loved had been delivered into the hands of those who hated him and she had to take the responsibility for that. Atonement could only be made if she rescued him but the chances of that were slim. Locked in her chamber, with an armed guard outside her door, she was not even sure where Miles was being kept.
Noises from the courtyard took her to the window once again and she saw Fulk riding in with his two men. Hamo and Jocelyn came out to greet them and the steward gave them his news. Hamo burst into laughter and clapped the man on the arm in appreciation before striding back into the house. Jocelyn was also delighted at the turn of events but he wanted the pleasure of gloating. He gazed at her window with a sly grin and gave her a mocking wave. Guy had been killed but another brother exercised power over her now. Matilda drew back in cold horror. She had the terrible feeling that she might never see Miles Champeney again.
The dungeon was small and airless. A thin sliver of light came through an aperture high in the rough stone wall but an oppressive darkness filled most of the chamber. The straw that half-covered the uneven floor had been there for weeks and was ripe with souvenirs of former occupants. The stench of human excrement was almost unbearable. Insects crawled up the walls and across the low ceiling. Spiders were spinning their patient webs. A rat nestled in the darkest corner. Miles Champeney was outraged that he had been cast into such a foul cell, but his cries of indignation went unheard and his pounding on the door went unregarded. He soon came to understand the seriousness of his plight and the sheer irrelevance of any protest.
His companion in the grim dungeon was the servant who acted as an intermediary between him and Matilda, and the man had no hope of ever leaving the place alive. Miles felt a stab of guilt. Indirectly, he had helped to put the man in the fetid prison. The servant's only crime had been loyalty to his mistress but he would be forced to pay a dreadful penalty for it. Compassion touched Miles. Even though he was concerned for himself and distracted by fears for Matilda, he could still spare a thought for an incidental casualty of their love. The man did not deserve his fate.
Miles shuffled about and hurled a kick at the door.
“We must get out of this hole!” he urged.
“It is impossible, my lord.”
“There has to be a way!”
“Nobody has ever found it before.”
“I still have my dagger,” said Miles, pulling it from its scabbard. “They did not take that away from me.”
“What use is one dagger against a dozen swords?”
“I will attack the guard when he brings food.”
“He will not even come, my lord,” said the servant. “We get no food. Starvation is part of our punishment.”
“They can't treat us like this!” yelled Miles.
“My lord, Hamo, can do whatever he wishes.”
Miles Champeney railed aloud but he knew that his cries were futile. He was an enemy of Blackwater Hall who had dared to trespass on it. Hamo FitzCorbucion would show no mercy. Matilda was trapped as helplessly as her beloved so there was no possibility of rescue from her. Only one person could save him now but he had estranged himself from that same person by his flight from Champeney Hall. Gilbert had threatened to disown him if he persisted in the folly of trying to wed Matilda. Why should father come to the aid of a son who so blatantly defied his wishes? Miles began to resign himself to the inevitable. He was doomed.
Ralph Delchard listened to Gilbert Champeney with gathering impatience, then smashed his fist down on to the oak table. They were in Gilbert's chamber and the latest example of Hamo's perfidy had been exposed to view. Ralph demanded action.
“Take your men and ride to Blackwater Hall!” he said.
“What good would that do?” asked Gilbert sadly. “Hamo has four times my number of knights and he will mock me.”
“Let me go in your stead!” volunteered Ralph.
“That would serve no purpose.”
“I will insist that he hand your son over.”
“Hamo would not receive you,” said Gilbert. “He would simply close his gates upon you and keep you outside. Even your writ does not extend to Blackwater.”
“Then we must call on Peter de Valognes.”
“No, Ralph!”
“He is the sheriff.”
“Then he has business enough to keep him occupied.”
“Peter de Valognes has the authority to compel Hamo.”
“Not in this instance, Ralph.”
“Send in the sheriff. Demand the release of your son.”
“How do we know that Miles is held at the house?” said Gilbert balefully. “Fulk was far too wily to tell me more than is needful. They may have him hidden anywhere on the demesne. We cannot ask the sheriff to go searching for a missing son when he is already hunting for a murderer.” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Besides, this is a domestic matter. It must be sorted out between Hamo and me.”
“Then what do you propose to do?”
“Offer him money. Try to buy him off.”
“Money!” Ralph was fuming. “Danegeld!”
“What other way is there?”
“Brute force,” said Ralph. “He may have his army of knights but most of them are still out searching for Wistan. Add my men to yours and we have a sizeable troop. Join them with the sheriff and his officers and even Hamo will have to pay attention to what we say.”
“It is not that simple, Ralph.”
“Miles is your son. Fight to get him back.”
“I would,” said Gilbert in despair, “but Hamo holds all the weapons. He sent his steward here to strike a bargain. Miles will be set free if I hand over the documents that accuse Blackwater Hall.”
“That would disarm us completely. When we meet him at the shire hall, we would have no case to offer against him.” He flashed an admonitory glance at his host. “Would you really have betrayed us in that way, Gilbert?”
“I was sorely tempted, I know that.”
“To steal from your own guests!”
“My son's life is at stake here.”
“Then take your case to the sheriff!”
“No!” shouted Gilbert vehemently, rising to his feet. “What am I to tell him? That my son ran off against my wishes and was caught in a snare by Hamo? What proof do I have? You saw Fulk enter this house but you did not hear what he told me. He has only to deny every word that passed between us and my case crumbles.” He walked up to Ralph with his hands spread in a plea. “There is no help for me here. Peter de Valognes is a power in the shire but he will not thank me for trying to drag him into a dispute of this kind. Where is the crime in his eyes? A sheriff must stay above the petty squabbles of barons.” More tears formed. “And besides, I have my pride, Ralph. I would be too ashamed to admit what has befallen me and how I was even driven to steal from worthy friends like you. People may laugh at Champeney Hall but it has a reputation to uphold.”
Ralph Delchard could hear what the other man was saying and he had profound sympathy. The son may have inadvertently plunged them into the mess but the father was not entirely free from blame. His attitude had been one of the pressures that forced Miles to follow such a reckless course of action. Ralph was angry that a host would dare even to think of stealing from his guests, but his real venom was directed solely at Hamo FitzCorbucion. The master of Blackwater Hall was entirely without scruple. To disable the commissioners who could threaten his position, he had turned a generous man like Gilbert Champeney into a common thief. He would have no compunction about starving the son to death if the father did not meet the terms of the corrupt bargain.
After lengthy brooding, Ralph spied a possible solution.
“I would like to meet this Matilda,” he said.
“Matilda?”
“If she can inspire such love in your son, she must be a remarkable young lady.” He gave a reassuring smile. “Miles risked his life to get to her. He may be foolhardy but I like his courage. It must not go to waste. Take heart, my friend. We will save him.”
“How?”
“By turning Brother Simon loose on Hamo.”
“Brother Simon?”
“Yes,” said Ralph with a grin. “He may seem a timid creature who is afraid of his own shadow, but he is the strongest weapon in our armoury. Let us find him. Two lovers may yet be rescued by a Benedictine monk.”
Chapter Eight
BRIGHT SUNSHINE HAD FOLLOWED THE UNCERTAIN START TO THE DAY AND THE earlier squall was a receding memory. The wind had now dropped to a token puff. Maldon was warm, dry, and positively throbbing with activity. It was market day and stallholders who had set out their wares during the last of the rain were now wiping the sweat from their brows and complaining about the heat. People streamed into the town for the occasion, some by horse or on foot from outlying areas, some by boat from Goldhanger or West Mersea and beyond. Fish was fresh, oysters were cheap, and vegetables were plentiful. The local cheese was much in demand. Live poultry, leather goods, basketware, dyed cloth, and pottery were also on sale with dozens of other items. There was even a man who simultaneously told fortunes and pulled teeth with an alarming pair of pincers. One glance at the blood-stained molars that lay in his earthenware bowl was enough to cure most species of toothache.
Gervase Bret was searching the market for a cutler. Having tethered his horse nearby, he made his way through the seething mass of people who had converged on the junction of High Street and Silver Street. The noise and bustle could not compare with the pandemonium that London had to offer but it still took him some minutes to find what he wanted. The cutler was a short, tubby man with a ragged beard. He wore a rough woollen tunic, which was making him perspire, and kept taking a swig out of a cup of water near his hand. When Gervase came up to the stall, the man was sharpening a blade on a whetstone, which he revolved by pressing his foot on a treadle. Sparks flew up into his pudgy face but they did not seem to bother him at all.
The cutler glanced at Gervase and scented a potential customer. He broke off from his task and gave a lopsided grin.
“Can I help you, young sir?” he asked.
“I hope so,” said Gervase. “I found a knife and I wondered if you could tell me anything about it.”
“Found one?” He was disappointed. “Is that all?”
“Your help could be important.”
“Not to me, sir. I only sell or sharpen knives.”
“I'll pay you for your time,” volunteered Gervase, and the cutler's manner changed at once. “Here's the knife.”
The murder weapon was tucked in his belt and he pulled it out to pass it across. It was a long-bladed implement with a stout bone handle, which had been worn to the shape of someone's palm by constant use. The cutler took one look and gave a satisfied chuckle.
“What can you tell me?” asked Gervase.
“Anything you want to know, sir. I made this.”
“You made it?”
“A kitchen knife. For slicing food of any kind.”
“Are you certain that it is yours?”
The man looked offended. “My mark is upon it!”
“Of course.” Gervase thrust a hand into his purse and gave him a few coins. “Tell me all you can.”
“There's not much more to say,” admitted the man, “but this is my workmanship. Look, sir. I have the twin to your knife lying here on my stall.” He picked up one of the knives on display and placed it beside the other. They were virtually identical. “I have made and sold a hundred or more like this.”
“And who buys them?” said Gervase.
“Everybody with an eye for quality.”
“So you cannot tell me who bought this particular one?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” The cutler waved a stubby hand at the crowd. “There is my market, sir. I work for all and sundry. This knife of yours might have been sold to a baker to slice his bread, a butcher to cut up his meat, or a fisherman to gut his catch. Any wife might have bought it to use in her kitchen.” He gave a dark laugh. “Or on her husband! For it will go through live flesh just as easily as dead.”
Gervase could vouch for that. He took the implement back and turned it over in his hand as he examined it.
“How long ago did you make this?” he said.
“A year at most. Maybe as little as six months ago.”
“Could it get so worn in such a short time?”
The man gave his lopsided grin. “I can see you do not work in a kitchen, sir. If you hold anything in your hand for ten hours a day, you will leave your imprint on it. This knife has been well used but it has been looked after. The blade is as sharp as any razor and the point is like a needle. My guess is that it belonged to a cook.”
“Someone from Maldon?”
“Who can say?” He started the whetstone. “You'll find my knives in Barking and Brightlingsea, in Colchester and Coggeshall. Why, sir, I daresay that knives just like the one you hold are being used by the monks of Waltham Abbey at this very moment to cut their venison.”
Gervase smiled. “Forest law forbids them to hunt deer and the Rule of St. Benedict prevents them from eating rich meat.”
“Laws and rules don't bother them,” said the man as he sharpened his blade again. “Most of the brothers I've met are fatter than me and they didn't get bellies like that from eating gruel and fish.” He glanced at the knife that Gervase was putting back in his belt. “Giv
e it to me, sir.”
“Why?”
“So that I can sell it again. It's no use to you.”
“But it is, my friend.”
“In a Kitchen?”
“No,” said Gervase. “In a court of law.”
He thanked the man and moved off through the crowd. The stroll to the Church of All Souls' took no more than a minute and he was pleased to find Oslac inside. The priest was kneeling in prayer before the altar and he remained there for some time. Gervase waited quietly at the rear of the nave then stepped forward. Oslac was pleased to see him and hustled his visitor straight into the vestry.
“I have a message for you.”
“For me?”
“You are to return to Champeney Hall as soon as possible,” said the priest. “One of the soldiers from your escort called in at the church even now. He knew that you would be coming here at some point.”
Gervase frowned. “Did he say why I was summoned?”
“No, but he was anxious to reach you. That suggests the matter is of some importance.”
“I will go at once,” said Gervase, turning away.
“Wait!” said Oslac, with a restraining hand on his arm. “I must hear your news first. And you must hear mine. You can stay in Maldon two minutes longer, surely?”
Gervase relaxed slightly. “At least.”
“Tell me what you have found.”
“I tracked down Tovild the Haunted once more.”
“Was he still fighting?”
“Furiously.”
“Which army was he in this time?”
“The Saxon,” said Gervase. “I found him killing Vikings and quoting his poem.”
The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2) Page 20
