“To begin with, you can tell us the cause of death.” “A knife wound through the heart.”
“In his chest or in his back?”
“Both. There were fifteen stab wounds in all.”
“A most thorough assassin,” noted Ralph. “How long had Guy been dead when his body was found?”
“It is impossible to say with any accuracy.”
“If you had to make a guess …”
“Two, maybe three days,” said Oslac. “My work here has made me closely acquainted with death and it has distinctive marks. When a body lies in water for any length of time, a number of things happen to it. First of all-”
“Omit the details,” interrupted Ralph with a squeamish expression,
not wishing to hear about the destructive properties of water. “A time is all we need. Two or three days?”
“That is what I would estimate.” “Who found the body?” said Gervase. “Brunloc. A fisherman.”
“Could we speak to him?” “If you wish.”
“Where could we find him?”
“Out in his boat, most of the time.”
“This is work for you, Gervase,” said Ralph quickly. “I will not venture near the sea except by compulsion. I have no love for surging waves.”
“The sea is over ten miles away, my lord,” said Oslac. “Your gulls tell me otherwise.”
“Meet Brunloc at the Hythe,” suggested the priest. “I can arrange that for you.”
“We accept that offer with gratitude,” said Gervase. “A moment ago, you told us you did not think that Wistan was the killer of Guy FitzCorbucion.”
“I also told you that I could be wrong.” “Is the boy capable of murder?”
“Indeed, he is. Wistan felt he had just cause. And he did run away once the corpse was discovered. That brought suspicion down on his head.” Oslac gave it some more thought then reaffirmed his instinct. “But I still feel that this is not his doing.”
“Why?”
“Because Wistan would strike in anger. A wild assault. And there is clear calculation in this attack.”
“Calculation?” said Ralph. “The body was mutilated.” “Fifteen stab wounds, you said.’”
“There was something else, my lord.”
“Well?” Ralph saw the man’s reluctance and tried to overcome it with a softer tone. “Something else?”
The priest threw a glance towards the mortuary. “I would not have this voiced abroad,” he insisted.
“You have our word on that,” promised Gervase.
“The truth has even been kept from Guy’s own sister.” “We will not breathe it to a soul,” vowed Ralph.
“That is vital.” Oslac studied the two men closely until he was sure that he could trust them. They were royal commissioners who had been selected by the Conqueror himself for a complex mission and that said much about their character and their quality. There was also a sense of candour about them, which appealed to the priest. In a town where deceit and prevarication were found at every turn, it was refreshing to meet two people with such a clear-eyed commitment to truth. Oslac knew he could put his faith in them and he lowered his voice before continuing. “When the body was found,” he explained, “it had been stripped of much of its clothing.”
“What form did the mutilation take?” said Gervase. “He was castrated.”
There was a long and uneasy pause as the visitors absorbed this new intelligence and tried to wonder at its meaning. They plied Oslac with further questions but there was nothing more that he was able or prepared to add. When they pressed him for the names of other possible suspects, he refused to point a finger at anyone. His task was to bring some comfort to the bereaved family and not to indulge in speculation about the identity of the killer. They respected his position and thanked him for the help that he had been able to give. Oslac showed them out and walked through the little cemetery with them. The priory bell began to toll in the distance and it unlocked a memory.
“You were mentioned in prayers,” he said. “Prioress Mindred and her sisters were intensely grateful for the protection you gave them on their journey. God’s blessing was called down upon you.”
Ralph grinned. “I can think of other ways in which the nuns could have shown their thanks but they may not fall within the rules of the Benedictine Order.”
“I am certain of it,” said Gervase crisply, then turned to the priest. “You visited the priory?”
“I do so on a regular basis to take Mass.” “Then you know its inner workings.”
“I know only what they wish me to know,” replied Oslac. “And that is as it should be. A convent of holy sisters is a community that looks inward and needs no interference from outside. They accept me at the priory but they administer it entirely by themselves.”
“Prioress Mindred seems a capable woman,” said Gervase. “Extremely capable.”
“I was more impressed by Sister Tecla,” opined Ralph. “Even in her nun’s attire, she struck me as a most attractive young woman and her voice was bewitching. What makes such a lovely creature as that turn her back on the world?”
“The call from God.”
“I wish she had heard my call first.”
“You must forgive Ralph,” said Gervase quickly. “He is unaccustomed to the meaning of a spiritual life.”
His colleague beamed. “Sister Tecla must instruct me.”
“She has other preoccupations,” said Oslac with a smile that showed he had taken no offence. “All ecclesiastical institutions have a special function to perform and the priory is no exception. It fulfills its purpose in the most striking way and I have nothing but praise for the holy sisters. They are all quite remarkable servants of God.”
“Does that include Sister Gunnhild?” asked Gervase. “Sister Gunnhild?”
“I met her when I arrived,” he said. “The lady was less than friendly
to me. Since I helped to escort her prioress and one of the sisters all the way back to Maldon, Sister Gunnhild might at least have shown a token of gratitude.”
“She thanked you in her prayers,” assured Oslac. “That was not the impression I received.”
“Do not worry about it, Gervase,” said Ralph jovially. “You cannot
expect your boyish appeal to win the heart of every woman. Sister Tecla fell in love with you-what more do you want? Forget this Sister Gunnhild.”
“I simply wished to know more about her,” said Gervase, unhappy at the teasing reference to Tecla. “The lady puzzled me, that is all. Her manner was peculiar.” He turned to the priest. “Can you tell us anything about her?”
“Gunnhild is a true Christian,” said Oslac.
“Of Danish stock, by the name.”
“Indeed, she is, though born and brought up in Maldon.” “What did I do that upset her so much?”
“You share a grievous fault with me, I fear.”
“With you, Father Oslac?”
The priest chuckled. “We are both men.”
“Does she hate the sex so violently?” asked Ralph.
“No,” said Oslac, “she just considers us irrelevant. A convent is by definition an exclusively female community and Sister Gunnhild sets great store by that.” He put a hand on his chest. “In my case, I have to confess, she has a further cause for disapproval.”
“What is that?” said Gervase.
“I am married.”
Ralph Delchard laughed in surprise and warmed even more to the man. He despised the whole notion of celibacy and was delighted to find that the Church of All Souls’ was served by a flesh-and-blood priest with the promptings common to normal human beings. Vows of chastity left a person with the bloodless pallor of a Brother Simon or the porcine sheen of a Canon Hubert Oslac the Priest, by contrast, had a ruddy complexion and a twinkle in his eye, both of which Ralph ascribed to the presence of a woman in his bed at nights. Gervase Bret took even more interest in the news because it mirrored his own intent. It was love of Alys that had made
him abandon his novitiate at Eltham Abbey and it was the prospect of marriage to her that gave his life such joy and direction. Gervase was touched by Oslac’s readiness to confide in them.
“You are a bold man,” he said. “Archbishop Lanfranc has attacked
clerical marriage.”
“Archbishop Lanfranc is a monk.”
“He frowns upon relations with the fairer sex.”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury is a great man who serves a great king,” said Oslac, “and he has made substantial improvements to the Church since he was appointed. I am more than willing to accept his rulings on almost everything else but I will not divorce my wife because of his frown. My own father was a married priest and I inherited this benefice from him. I am hopeful that my son will take over here from me in due course.”
“Your son?” said Ralph. “You have children?” “Four.”
“No wonder Sister Gunnhild dislikes you!” said Gervase.
They shared a communal laugh. It was time to leave Maldon and ride back to Champeney Hall but the two commissioners were glad that they had taken the trouble to meet Oslac the Priest. His help was invaluable. Their host had showered them with information about the town and its personalities while Gilbert Champeney dealt only in gossip and anecdote. Oslac’s comments were at once more interesting and reliable. He lived at the very heart of the community in every sense and was thus more intimately acquainted with its nuances of behaviour. They liked him and resolved to call on him again before they finally departed from Maldon.
Ralph had been toying with the idea of asking about the origin of Humphrey’s nickname but the nature of Guy FitzCorbucion’s mutilation had somehow deprived him of that urge. A question that would in any case be improper to a priest had now become severely distaste-ful as well so Ralph mastered his curiosity. Instead, it was Gervase who sought elucidation.
“Do you know a man called Tovild?” he asked.
“I know three or four by that name,” replied Oslac. “This one is unusual.”
“Then you are asking about Tovild the Haunted.” Gervase was pleased. “You know him?”
“Of course. We all know Tovild the Haunted.” “Who is he?”
“As harmless an old man as you could wish to meet.”
“But where did he get his name?” asked Ralph. “Put Gervase out of his misery, I beg you, or I will have no respite from his ceaseless prattle about this Tovild the Haunted. Who is this fellow?”
“And what is it that haunts him?” said Gervase. Oslac gazed in the direction of Northey Island. “The Battle of Maldon.”
Dusk encouraged him to move more freely about the island. Wistan had now got through the best part of a second day without detection and it bred even more confidence in him. He was learning to think like a fugitive and to see the folly of trusting in a single hiding place. He needed a variety of cover so that he could shift easily from one burrow to another, then on again to a third or fourth, when they finally came for him. Therefore, Wistan chose a series of locations where thick undergrowth or favourable contours could be used for concealment, and he practised scurrying between them at full pelt. The playful exercise cheered him. Time passed and drained even more colour out of the cloudless sky.
Two problems vexed him. The first was the possible use of animals to track him down. Like all Norman barons, Hamo FitzCorbucion was immensely fond of hunting and he kept a pack of hounds to help him pursue deer and wild boar. Those dogs could just as easily be turned on a human quarry and Wistan could never kill fifty baying dogs with a knife and a desire for revenge. A tree would give him a degree of safety if he climbed high enough, but the hounds might sniff him out and he would be trapped. His only salvation lay in the River Blackwater and it was to the muddy coastline that he now turned his interest. Water did not bear scent. Hiding places in the shallows or among the reeds would even defeat the delicate nostrils of hunting dogs.
Wistan’s second problem was more serious. A fugitive could not himself be in pursuit of a prey. His lust for vengeance boiled inside him but it would not be satisfied as long as he stayed on Northey Island. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead but Hamo was the head of the family and Wistan had to execute him for his own father’s sake. Jocelyn, too, deserved to die because he bore a reviled name and because he stood by and watched Algar being humiliated by Guy. In his swirling rage, Wistan even wanted to destroy Matilda as well so that the entire FitzCorbucion family were obliterated from Blackwater Hall.
But how was he to do it? He could hardly expect Hamo or Jocelyn to come obligingly onto the island with no soldiers at their back. When they hunted him, they would do so in force and Wistan would be
lucky to see-let alone to get within striking distance-of the two men whose deaths he had sworn to bring about. If the ravens of Blackwater would not come on their own to him, then he would have to go to them. He had no idea how he could possibly do this without taking unnecessary risks, but a vague plan began to form and it so filled his mind with its daring that it made him unwary. He strolled towards the margin of the water as unguardedly as if he owned the whole island.
The noise of the spear awoke him at once and he flung himself on
his stomach in the reeds. Had he been seen? The soldier was clearly heading in his direction. Wistan cursed himself for being so careless. Two days of freedom had been thrown away in a second’s inat-tention. His knife jumped into his hand but it would be no match for the spear that had been hurled with force into a fallen log. The sound still reverberated in his ears. That same spear could impale him to the ground if he lay there motionless. He had to escape somehow. Pulling his knees forward, he raised himself slowly and peered over the swaying tops of the reeds. It was difficult to see anything in the twilight but he knew the soldier was still there. He could hear the clash of a sword on a shield and a guttural battle cry. Was the man summoning the rest of the hunting party? When would they unleash their attack?
Wistan was about to take to his heels when he noticed something that stilled his fears. The man was old. He moved slowly. What he put his sword into his belt and tried to pull the spear from the log, he could not at first dislodge the weapon. It took him a couple of minutes of tugging and twisting before the head of the spear consented to part company with the timber and, in doing so, it threw him right off balance. Wistan saw something else. The soldier was not, as he had imagined, in the mailed hauberk of a Norman knight. He wore a long woollen coat, belted at the waist and reaching to mid-thigh. His legs were encased in tight trousers and his shoes were made of leather. The Norman helm that Wistan thought he had seen was, in fact, a conical helmet of iron with a thick nasal. Spear and sword were heavy implements of war and the long oval shield was embossed with a simple design at its centre. Wistan was utterly baffled.
The old man charged on unsteady limbs towards an invisible enemy
and jabbed at the air with his spear. His war cry had been replaced by some kind of chant but the boy was too far away to pick out any of the words. Wistan’s main concern was that he had not given himself away. He was safe. This strange creature who fought a nonexistent battle in the fading light on Northey Island had not come in search of him, and he was certainly not a member of the FitzCorbucion retinue. He was not a Norman knight at all. What Wistan was looking at was a Viking warrior in full battle dress.
Tovild the Haunted was on the rampage once again.
The cook excelled himself. The meal that was served at Champeney Hall that evening was so rich and appetising that even Brother Simon could not refuse it all. Meat, fish, and poultry of the highest quality were placed before the visitors and the aroma alone was enough to make Canon Hubert’s mouth water with anticipation. Among a selec-tion of fine dishes, he found the grilled quail most to his liking and he munched his way through four of them between frequent sips of wine. For those who preferred it, ale that had been spiced and honeyed was also available. A whole array of pies and puddings was brought in to complete what had been a virtual banque
t.
Gilbert Champeney had even arranged for minstrels to play at the far end of the hall so that the frugal nibbling of Brother Simon was accompanied by the strains of an Irish ham and the noisy gormandising of Canon Hubert was sweetened by the plangent harmonies of the lyre. At his host’s elbow, Ralph Delchard ate heartily and drank with enthusiasm while listening to Gilbert’s amiable chatter. Gervase Bret dined with his usual moderation and took the opportunity, when the repast was almost over, to converse with Miles Champeney. The young man was pleasant and well mannered but unaccountably reserved, and Gervase was not sure if this was due to a natural shyness or if his companion was seeking to hide something. Miles was patently not at ease. From time to time, he seemed to wince involuntarily as he overheard some snatch of his father’s banter. Gilbert Champeney clearly had the power to make his son squirm with embarrassment.
“We must congratulate your cook,” said Gervase.
“Father brought him over from Normandy,” said Miles. “He loves all things Saxon but he found their diet a little too plain and coarse.”
“Do you share his admiration for the Saxons?” “Not entirely.”
Gervase waited for an explanation that did not come. The young man sipped his wine watchfully and waited for the next question. It was evident that he himself would not initiate any conversation.
“Essex is a strange county,” observed Gervase. “Well over four hundred settlements were recorded by our predecessors yet you only have two of any size-Maldon and Colchester. Why is that, do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
“Does it say something about the spirit of the people who live in this shire? Do they value their independence? Do they prefer life in a smaller community? Or is it to do with the geography of this part of the country?” He paused long enough to see that no answer was forthcoming and then he pressed on. “King William has not been kind to Essex.”
“Kind?”
Gervase smiled. “Perhaps one should not look for kindness in a conqueror,” he remarked, “but other shires have been treated with far less severity. Your father may love the Saxons but the King seems to have chosen Essex in order to show his hatred of them. Its history is one long tale of confiscation and loss. Did you know that less than one man in ten can now call himself free? Half the population of this county are mere bordars.”
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