“Do you call yourselves men?” he demanded. “You have lost your land and you will not raise a finger to get it back. Do you not have wives? Do you not have children? Do you not care if you behave as cowards and weaklings in front of them? Hell and damnation! What is wrong with you?”
“They came to talk to us, my lord,” said a spokesman. “Who did?”
“Fulk the Steward with a dozen knights.”
“If he had brought a hundred, he would not frighten me out of my rightful claim!” asserted Ralph. “What has happened to the red blood of Maldon? Has it been thinned down over the years? The warriors of this town fought a famous battle against the Vikings and gave their lives sooner than yield up their land. Yet twelve knights and a donkey-faced steward ride out to show off their armour and you surrender all.”
Canon Hubert was highly critical of his colleague’s method of argument and he grimaced repeatedly but Brother Simon was mesmerised by the performance. It was left to Gervase Bret to appreciate the irony of a situation in which a Norman soldier who had spent his formative years fighting Saxon housecarls was now reminding a Saxon audience of their warrior heritage and their famed encounter on the banks of the River Blackwater with the Vikings. Moreover, Ralph was doing it in order to stir up their passions against a fellow-Norman. The burgesses first began to whine, then to protest, and then to challenge. When he had them thoroughly roused, Ralph had achieved his objective and he took his place behind the table.
Gervase took command and called the men one by one to make sworn statements and to produce whatever contractual evidence they had. The burgesses were subtenants, holding their small amounts of land either directly from the King or from the tenant-in-chief who owned it. Hamo FitzCorbucion had systematically hived off part of their property for his own use so that they were in the invidious position of having to pay rent for land that they could not farm and that was adding more money to the coffers of the lord of the manor of Blackwater. Hamo was no crude landgrabber. He acquired his extra property in all manner of ways. Bemused subtenants had awakened one day to learn that their most productive acreages had been bought, borrowed, or repossessed by Hamo even though he produced no written evidence of these transactions.
Other abuses appeared. One man had lost twelve cattle when they strayed onto Hamo’s land and another lost forty sheep by the same means. In both cases, dogs had been used to drive the animals away from their pastures and onto the Norman’s property. A third man was
exercising his rights of pannage in the wood when sixty of his pigs were rounded up by Guy and taken off to stock the kitchens at Blackwater Hall. During a hard winter, a fourth had gone to cut down some trees on his land for firewood and found that they no longer existed. He traced the logs to Hamo, made vociferous complaints, and returned home to discover that half his land had been annexed by way of punishment. And so it went. Stories that had been missed by the first commissioners now came thick and fast. People who had been too intimidated even to appear at the shire hall on the previous occasion now spoke angrily and-for the most part-honestly.
There were a few exceptions, men who had a personal grudge to work off and who overreached themselves by making claims and accusations that arose more from malice than from fact. Canon Hubert exposed such falsehood at once and was scathing in his condemna-tion of the perpetrators. He was anxious to uphold any legitimate charges against Hamo FitzCorbucion, but he would not tolerate any random Saxon venom against a Norman lord. Sententious to a fault, Hubert was also merciless in cross-examination and he uncovered a series of disputes between the burgesses themselves. They might be united in their hatred of a local tyrant, but they were bitterly divided in other ways. As the full facts were exposed, a more rounded portrait of life in Maldon came to light.
Ralph Delchard unblocked the dam to allow the river of allegations to surge through, Gervase Bret used the water to turn the mill wheel of legal process, while Canon Hubert was simultaneously filtering out any impurities. It was a most productive session in the shire hall and Brother Simon’s hand was aching from hour upon hour of neat callig-raphy. When the material had all been amassed, Ralph told them they should not be intimidated by threats from Blackwater Hall when there was a higher authority in the town. Hubert added his own rider to this advice.
“Today,” he said, “we have heard the testimony of Saxon subtenants. Tomorrow, we shall call Norman witnesses before us, some of whom will be your own landlords with evidence that may contradict or coun-termand your own. Only when we have decided where the real truth lies will we summon the lord of the manor of Blackwater to marshal his defence.”
The session was over and the burgesses began to rise from their benches to leave, considerably more pleased than when they arrived, although still afraid of repercussions from Blackwater. Ralph went after them to detain them briefly at the door with a confidential question. Hilarious laughter broke out and knowing looks were exchanged all around. He repeated his enquiry but they shook their heads in denial and left the hall in mirthful moods. Ralph turned to Gervase with a gesture of despair.
“Will nobody tell me where Humphrey got his name?”
Blackwater Hall was trembling with fear by the time that Hamo FitzCorbucion rode off with his men. All the servants were hauled into Guy’s chamber to be challenged about the missing heirloom. None could help him. Even when cuffed and kicked by him, they denied any guilt and suggested that the object might be in another part of the house. A complete search failed to uncover something that Guy would never have parted with and that meant that it had to have been stolen, but an even more rigorous interrogation could not identify the thief. When their master finally left, the household was in a state of utter panic.
Hamo let his horse feel the sting of his rage as he led a detachment of his men across his estate. His fortnight in Normandy had proved to be a ruinous expedition. He came back to find his elder son murdered, his demesne besieged by royal commissioners, his daughter recalcitrant, and a prize family heirloom stolen. What new afflictions awaited him?
“That was the house, my lord,” said the steward. “Where?”
“That pile of ashes. Jocelyn ordered us to burn it.” “Good!”
“Algar lived there alone with the boy.”
“A slave and his miserable whelp!” Hamo reined in his horse and the whole company came to a halt. “Ride to the next dwelling. Bring me Algar’s neighbour.”
“We have already questioned him.” “I will speak to him now.”
Fulk rode off with two of his men while Hamo dismounted and walked into the middle of what had once been a hovel. He kicked the ashes viciously then looked up towards the town.
“Did they bury him up there?” he yelled. “I’ll dig his foul body up and bring it down here to roast it!”
The steward soon returned with the prisoner. The man was another
slave on the estate and he was being dragged along by the two soldiers with ropes. He could barely keep his feet and fell headlong to the ground when he reached Hamo. A kick made him moan and writhe. The soldiers jerked their ropes and the man was hauled upright. He already bore the marks of a beating but Hamo did not even notice them. He took out his sword and used the flat of the blade to strike the prisoner across his chest. The man doubled up in agony.
“Where is the boy?” demanded Hamo. “I do not know, my lord …”
“Where is Wistan!”
The sword hit his thighs this time and brought him to his knees. He swore that he knew nothing but Hamo did not relent for a second. The
pain was excruciating and the man gabbled for mercy. Wistan had fled in the night and nobody had any idea where. Hamo kept striking him until a stray remark finally brought the savage assault to an end.
“Wistan was a strong swimmer, my lord …” “Swimmer?”
Hamo turned to look at the estuary with brooding ire. “Fulk …”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Have you searched Northey?” “No, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“Jocelyn did not think the boy could have-” “He may be wrong.”
Hamo snapped his fingers and the two soldiers released their ropes. The prisoner collapsed to the ground and lay there in a twitching heap. Unaware of the truth, he had unwittingly given them a clue, which might lead them to Wistan. His pain was now mixed with remorse. Hamo put a foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse.
“When is the next low tide?” he said.
Oslac the Priest was a reliable friend. When Gervase Bret walked across to the Church of All Souls’ to remind him of his promise, the man went off with him at once to the Hythe. The fishermen had been back hours ago to unload the day’s catch but many loitered throughout the afternoon to talk with the crews of any trading vessels or to make running repairs to their own boats. There was a chance that Brunloc was among them. Since it was Brunloc who had found the body of Guy FitzCorbucion in the water, Ralph Delchard had declined the opportunity of making his acquaintance. Fishermen and sailors made him queasy. Therefore, when Gervase went off, he stayed at the shire hall to question the town reeve more about the problems of collecting taxes in the community. Canon Hubert had been separated from food for far too long and was riding back to Champeney Hall on his donkey with Brother Simon and an escort They felt it had been a profitable day. While Hubert revolved on a spit of self-congratulation, Simon basted him with flattery.
Gervase was in luck. Among the boats that crowded into the harbour was the one that belonged to Brunloc. It did not take the priest long to find the man and to introduce him to Gervase, but he was an unwilling witness. Authority of any kind unsettled him and the sight of a royal officer made him doubly wary. Brunloc, a dark, wiry man in his thirties, possessed the ruddy face of his occupation as well as its unambiguous stink. He was a simple soul who made a simple calculation. Gervase was only in town for a short while. When the young man left, Hamo FitzCorbucion would still be there and the father of the murder victim might not be pleased if Brunloc had passed on too much information to this stranger.
“I have my work,” he grunted.
“We will not keep you long, Brunloc,” said the priest. “We just wish to know how and where you found the body.”
“I’ve already told you.” “Tell me again, please.”
“It could help,” said Gervase.
The man looked at him with suspicion, then gave a very brief account of what had happened. Even when Oslac tried to coax more out of him, the fisherman remained laconic. Gervase tried his own form of persuasion and seemed to be winning the man’s confidence, but he extracted no more information. He thanked Brunloc and walked away with the priest towards the place where the body was actually found. The fisherman’s directions had been exact but it still took them some time to locate the correct part of the marshes. Oslac watched with amazement while Gervase hitched up his gown and plunged into the filthy water, squelching along the muddy bottom of the river and pushing his way through the reeds. It was a bold and dangerous method of research but it told him precisely what he wished to know. When Gervase had examined the area carefully, he came back to the bank to be hauled ashore by Oslac’s outstretched hand. He squeezed the worst of the water out of the hem of his gown and rubbed the mud off his shoes in the long grass. He was cold and sodden but he felt that the experiment had been worthwhile. Gervase was still trying to tidy himself up a little when a figure suddenly jumped out of the bushes. A wizened, white-haired man had been watching him from cover and now hopped up to him with a vacuous grin on his face. At the sight of the sword and shield, Gervase backed away but the newcomer clearly intended him no harm. He simply came in close so that he could whisper a secret that was giving him an intense pleasure.
“I saw who killed him!” he said with a cackle.
Before Gervase could reply, the old man let out a whoop and scuttled off quickly before vanishing into the bushes. His mad laughter could be heard mingling with the cries of the birds.
“Who on earth was that?” asked Gervase. “Ignore him,” said Oslac. “He talks in riddles.” “But he said he witnessed the murder.”
“He says lots of things, I fear. Pay no heed.” “Why not?”
“Because the poor man has lost his wits.”
“Who is he?”
Oslac smiled. “The friend you sought.” “Friend?”
“That was Tovild the Haunted.”
Chapter Six
As soon as he heard the noise, he knew that they had come for him. They were still half a mile away but the distant baying of the hounds sent a hideous message echoing across Northey Island. Wistan flew into a panic and took to his heels. He ran the fifty yards to his next lair and dived into it like an animal going to ground. Even there he did not feel safe and he soon abandoned the first burrow for another that he had picked out. Keeping low as he raced across a field, he flung himself down with panting gratitude as he reached his new hiding place. It was beneath the roots of a huge old elm. Nature had capriciously gouged a massive handful of earth out of the ground beside the tree and created an inviting refuge for someone who was prepared to crawl in under the exposed roots. Wistan caught his breath. He began to think clearly for the first time.
Know your enemy. Algar had taught him that. Before he dropped back to his next burrow, he ought to assess the strength of the pursuit. Only when he knew exactly what he was dodging could he best decide on his tactics. Wistan came slowly out of his cave beneath the tree and climbed up the side of the pit, putting his hands on the rim before raising his head with furtive care. When he got his first glimpse of them, his heart nearly stopped. There were dozens of them and they seemed impossibly closer. Their horses cantered gently at the heels of the hounds who were sniffing and yelping their way along in high excitement. Wistan was not looking at a solitary old man in Viking battle dress this time. These were Norman soldiers in full armour and he could even identify the FitzCorbucion crest of a raven. The might of Blackwater Hall had been unleashed against him.
Blind fear took over once more and he completely forgot about the little bundle that he had carried with him into the hollow beneath the elm. Instead, he crawled out of the pit and into the undergrowth before he dared to stand up again. Ignoring the other hiding places that he had found and made ready, he sprinted the few hundred yards towards the coastline. Wistan was now on the little promontory to the northwest of the island and water was on three sides of him. The thought gave him confidence. Even a pack of hounds could not find his scent in the sluggish movement of the river. He ran into the shallows then swam to a thick clump of reeds, which were diverting the current with their obstinate tenancy. Wistan went in amongst them, his body still submerged by water and his head concealed by the spikey reeds.
He did not have to wait long. The frisky dogs grew louder and he caught the jingle of harness for the first time. Spread out in a long line, the search party had combed the island thoroughly and their hounds had scattered sheep, cattle, and any other livestock that got in their way. The barking became more agitated and men’s voices were raised in a shout of triumph. They had found his burrow under the elm tree. Wrapped in some old rags were the few things that he had taken with him when he fled from the house. Worthless to any-one else, the belongings had a sentimental value to Wistan. A club, a carved snake, and a necklace of oyster shells, which his father had made, had now betrayed him. One voice rose high above the others and Wistan shivered. Hamo FitzCorbucion was there.
The hounds set off again and searched the promontory with moist noses and wagging tails while the soldiers hacked at the undergrowth with swords and lances to make sure it did not conceal their quarry. When figures appeared on the bank opposite him, Wistan held his breath and sank below the water, staying there for as long as he could while praying that they would not see him. His fear had been tempered by the spirit of revenge and he wanted to fight back. Hamo had returned from Normandy. Another target for his hatred was now standing on the bank no more than twenty yards
away.
His mind was bursting and his lungs were on fire when he finally dared to come up for air. They were still there but the reeds hid him from their gaze. He was about to sink below the water again when Hamo FitzCorbucion gave an order and they all moved off to continue their search elsewhere. Wistan stayed there for an hour before he felt safe enough to return to the bank. Days of freedom had ended dramatically. They had tracked him to his lair and made a decision for him. When darkness fell, Wistan would have to get back to the mainland.
“Domesday Book is indeed an apt name for it,” said Gilbert Champeney. “It spells doom for so many people.”
“It is a survey,” corrected Canon Hubert pedantically. “King William ordered it to be undertaken chiefly for financial and military purposes.” “It is essentially a tax inquest,” argued their host. “And it is made so much easier, as I have always claimed, by the efficiency of the Saxons.”
Ralph Delchard grinned. “If they were so efficient, why did we beat them at Hastings?”
“That is another matter.” Gilbert was into his stride now. “This survey of yours, this Domesday Book, or whatever you choose to call it, provides the King with an exact record of contributions to Danegeld or Heregeld-the one great Anglo-Saxon tax that was levied uniformly on the country. We Normans inherited their system and that makes your job so much the easier.”
“Easier!” snorted Ralph. “If only it were, Gilbert!”
“Do not forget the legal implications,” said Gervase Bret. “Part of the function of the survey is to legalise the changes in land ownership that occurred after the Conquest and to root out the irregularities that have taken place since. It is indeed a kind of Domesday Book.”
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