With his brother not yet cold in his grave, Jocelyn did not brood or grieve. Like his father, he was taking action to repel an attack, but it was of a legal nature in his case. Royal commissioners had gathered evidence against Blackwater Hall and it was only a matter of time before the family had to defend itself against charges of spectacular theft and misappropriation. While Hamo ranted in the hall below, his son sat quietly in his chamber and went through the manorial charters and accounts once more. He wanted to beat the newcomers with their own weapons and that necessitated the most detailed preparation. Jocelyn stalked the battlements of the law with growing confidence, believing that they might outwit the commissioners with an amalgam of his father’s overbearing character and his own acumen.
It was Fulk the Steward who interrupted him. “Your father wishes to see you,” he said.
“Has he quietened down yet?”
“He has stopped throwing the chairs around.” “Good,” said Jocelyn. “What of Peter de Valognes?”
“The sheriff has been sent on his way with a flea in his ear. Your father asked him why it had taken him so long to begin a murder inquiry. His language was hot. The sheriff wisely withdrew to town to begin his investigation there and to wait until your father was more amenable.” A bellow rose up from below. “He is calling for you.”
“I will come at once.”
Fulk led the way downstairs and was dismissed with a glare by Hamo FitzCorbucion, who wanted a private conference with his son. Jocelyn saw that his father was marginally calmer but still capable of exploding. Hamo was also drinking heavily and that introduced a maudlin note into his voice. He waved his son to a seat with his cup of wine and spilled some on the floor. Jocelyn picked up one of the few chairs that had not been dismembered and righted it so that he could sit down. His father strutted over to him.
“I am surrounded by fools!” “Yes, Father.”
“We buried Guy this morning,” said Hamo blankly. “My son went into his grave. That surely entitles me to respect. That surely earns me some sympathy. But what do I get? Eh?” He lurched a few steps and swayed over Jocelyn. “I get fools and idiots upsetting me! I get
people daring to argue with me. I get that buffoon of a sheriff riding in here as if he is doing me a favour, trying to pick up a trail that is already three days’ old.” He emptied his cup then dashed it to the floor. “Why does nobody actually help me!”
“I’m helping you, Father.”
“How?”
“Sit down and I’ll explain.”
Jocelyn stood up and guided his father into his chair. Then he picked up a stool so that he could sit in front of him. Hamo was swaying slightly but quiescent at last.
“I have tried to share some of the load,” said Jocelyn. “You went all the way to Coutances to negotiate something and I did not want it to be thrown back in your face.”
“Thrown back?”
“I speak of Matilda.”
“Why? What has she done?”
“Sent word to Miles Champeney.” “Hell-fire! She was forbidden!”
“That is why I kept him under surveillance,” said Jocelyn quickly, before his father’s anger was ignited beyond control again. “Matilda is cunning and resourceful. If I watched her too closely, she would have known. So I set a man to spy on Miles Champeney and the fellow’s vigilance may yet redeem your voyage to Coutances.”
“Why, Jocelyn? Tell me. What happened?” “A messenger was sent today …”
When he described the sequence of events, it was all he could do to stop his father from storming up to Matilda’s chamber to take a whip to her. Hamo’s ire shifted to the servant who was now locked in the dungeon below.
“I’ll leave him there to rot!” he vowed. “I’ll starve him to death then send in the dogs to eat the bones!”
“Forget him, Father,” advised his son. “He is nothing.” “He was part of a plot against me. I want revenge!” “Then take it out on the right person.”
“On Matilda?”
“On Miles Champeney. She sent for him. He will come.”
A slow grin spread over Hamo’s face. “He will come and I will prepare a welcome for him!” He nodded eagerly. “You are right, Jocelyn. He is the culprit here. It was he who led my daughter astray and I’ve not forgotten his fight with Guy. Yes, that is the way to take revenge.” He patted Jocelyn. “You have done well here. You have done very well.”
His son basked in the praise for a few minutes then turned to what he considered a much more important topic. Matilda’s happiness was of no real concern to him now. When Jocelyn had been at the mercy of his brother, she had been a useful ally against Guy, but the balance of power within the family had now shifted. To advance himself, he was quite willing to sacrifice her. In six weeks, she would be packed off to Coutances for the wedding and Jocelyn would not have to see her after that. Matilda had no place in the new dispensation at Blackwater Hall. She would only get in his way.
The royal commissioners were the serious problem.
“They will call us soon, Father,” he cautioned. “Who?”
“Ralph Delchard and his cohorts.” “Let them call. I will defy them.”
“There is a better way,” said Jocelyn. “I have studied all the charters and the accounts. If we are astute, we can pull the wool over their eyes. Follow my advice and we can pick up the law and hit them over the head with it.”
Hamo pondered. “Will we get away with it?” “I think so, Father.”
“Thinking is not enough against royal commissioners.”
“Then I know,” vouched Jocelyn. “We have to face them in argument sooner or later. They have documents to hold over us but we have even more of our own. While they have been getting fat on the meals at Champeney Hall, I have been eating nothing but grants, leases, renewals, agreements, and purchases. They came to Maldon to talk about our crimes and forfeitures. Let me contest the issue, and I’ll have them out of the town within a couple of days and we’ll not be an acre of land worse off.” Jocelyn beamed with self-esteem. “What do you say, Father? May I speak for us?”
Hamo FitzCorbucion was no longer listening. One phrase had been enough to alter his whole strategy. Jocelyn might lust for the chance to prove himself as an advocate but that would involve long hours of litigation in a murky shire hall. His father believed in the simplest and most direct solution to a problem. He began to laugh.
“Do you agree, Father?” said Jocelyn hopefully, but Hamo shook his head and laughed even louder. “Why not?”
“They are eating their heads off at Champeney Hall!”
“What is so funny about that?” asked the son as his irritation showed. “They have a fine cook. He will fill their bellies until they are fit to burst. Gilbert Champeney is a generous host.”
“I know,” said his father. “I intend to partake of his hospitality myself. That is what makes it so funny!”
Cruel laughter brought the conversation to an end.
Oslac the Priest was not easily surprised. His vocation gave him an insight into the very worst aspects of life in Maldon and he had learned to take even the most jolting shocks in his stride. Experience hardened him. However, when he returned to the Church of All Souls’ that evening, he was met by a situation that even he had not encountered before and it astonished him. Gervase Bret was lurking inside the door of the mortuary to protect the hapless Wistan from discovery. Oslac recovered quickly. He took both of them into his vestry and locked the door behind them. A slightly greater degree of safety had been attained and Wistan was relieved. He now had two friends who were on his side.
The vestry was hardly big enough for the three of them together. It was the place where the priest hung his vestments, stored the candles, and kept his few books. It had never before contained a royal commissioner from Winchester and a runaway slave who was being hunted for murder. In the hours he spent with the boy, Gervase had won his trust enough to coax the truth out of him. Wistan was certainly innocent Accused o
f murder, he had no option but to flee. The pursuing pack would not even bother to listen to his alibi, still less believe it. Certain death was all he could expect.
Oslac the Priest was full of compassion. “You did right to come here, Wistan.”
“It was all I could think to do.”
“It was a sensible decision.” He ran a hand across his chin. “The question is, what do we do with you now?”
“Keep him away from my lord, Hamo,” said Gervase. “And there is
one sure way to do that.” “What?” grunted the boy. “Surrender to the sheriff.” “No! No! I’m innocent!”
“That’s exactly why you should go to him,” said Gervase softly. “To clear your name. Peter de Valognes is an honest man. He will hear you out. He will also look after you.”
“I am not so certain of that,” opined Oslac. “But he is the Sheriff of Essex.”
“I know his position and I respect the man who holds it but he
does not have much influence over Blackwater Hall. He and my lord, Hamo, have had many battles in the past and the sheriff has yet to win.” He put a consoling arm around Wistan. “If we deliver the boy, the sheriff will lock him in the town prison while he questions him.”
“No prison,” begged Wistan. “No prison. Please.”
“At least, you would be safe there,” argued Gervase.
Oslac shook his head. “I fear not. My lord, Hamo, has great sway here. He will bribe or bully his way into the prison. He will not rest until Wistan is in his hands.”
“Save me,” wailed the boy. “Please save me.”
The priest calmed him down and mulled over the matter. “You will come home with me,” he said at length.
“With you?’ Gervase was uneasy. “That would put you in danger as well, Father Oslac. Consider well. Hamo holds the advowson of this church. You are vicar here with his approval. Were he to find that-” “He will not,” said Oslac crisply. “In any case, I refuse to put myself before a child in need. Wistan will stay in here until it grows dark. Then I will take him back to my house. It is close by. They will not
search there.”
Gervase was contrite. “You are a brave man,” he said, “and you are right to chide me for reminding you of your self-interest. Wistan has suffered enough. He needs refuge until the real murderer is caught and then his life will be safe.” He turned to the boy and patted his shoulder. “This is the best way. Are you content?”
Wistan gave a lacklustre nod. Oslac might hide him for a short while but that would not solve a long-term problem. Even if the real culprit were apprehended and his own innocence proved, Wistan could not imagine returning to the demesne of Hamo FitzCorbucion. It was his son, Guy, who had slain Algar and further vengeance had to be taken for that. The priest might hide the boy in the belief that he was not a killer, but Wistan still had murder in his heart.
Oslac could see how fatigued and hungry he was. He sat him on a stool and found some bread and water to sustain him until the priest’s wife could cook him proper food. There was a service to be taken soon in the church. Oslac locked the boy alone in the vestry and came out into the nave with Gervase.
“We have much to thank you for,” he said. “Wistan is fortunate that it was you who walked into the mortuary. Anybody else would have raised the alarm and the boy would now be lying dead somewhere in Blackwater Hall.”
“Call on me if I can be of further assistance.”
“I will.”
“The town reeve will know where to find me.”
“God bless you for your kindness!” He looked back towards the vestry. “The only way to rescue Wistan is to find the person who killed Guy FitzCorbucion. Let us pray that Peter de Valognes does that.”
“He may need our help.” “Why?”
“The sheriff comes too late on the scene,” said Gervase. “He will waste time trying to track down Wistan instead of hunting the man whom Tovild saw.”
“Tovild the Haunted?” “He was an eyewitness.” “Is that what he told you?”
“He was about to,” insisted Gervase, “but he was frightened away by the knights from Blackwater Hall. I am certain that Tovild is our best ally.”
“A dubious asset. Where did you find him?” “In the middle of the Battle of Maldon.” “What did he say?”
“He spoke in gnomic utterances.”
Oslac sighed. “Yes, that is Tovild the Haunted.”
“But he knows. He was there in the marshes at the time. Tovild holds the vital clue that will lead us to the murderer.”
“Then we will never find him, I fear. Tovild’s mind is full of shapes and phantoms. He has witnessed so many imaginary deaths in his dairy Battle of Maldon that he could never separate them from any real one.” Oslac was fatalistic. “Look elsewhere for your vital clue. Tovild will not help.”
“He will, he will,” declared Gervase. “I sensed it.” “His wits have turned. You merely sensed madness.” “I must see him again. Tell me where he lives.”
“On the shore. In the battle.” “Does he not have a home?”
“Yes,” said Oslac, “but he is rarely there. He only visits the house to get weapons and change into different armour. I’ll tell you where it is, and how to get there, but you will be very lucky to catch him at home.”
Gervase took the directions and thanked him. The priest showed him out of the church. He was about to walk away when he remembered the request from Ralph Delchard.
“You celebrate Mass at the priory, I believe?”
“I am one of three priests in the town who do so.” “Does the chapel possess a wonderful silver chalice?” “Why, yes, Master Bret. How did you know?”
“Is that always used during Mass?” asked Gervase. “Whenever it is available.”
“Available?”
“It disappeared for a week while the prioress was away in Barking Abbey,” said Oslac. “She is inordinately fond of that chalice and probably locked it away for safety. I used another in her absence, far less ornate but it served the same function.” He smiled quizzically. “Does that answer your question?”
“Extremely well.”
“May I know what it concerns?”
“An ambush,” said Gervase. “I would like to see this silver chalice. It has been much praised.”
“Rightly so. It is a true symbol of Maldon.”
“Symbol?”
“Yes,” said the priest. “You have been here long enough to get the measure of us. What are the main features that you have noticed since you have been here?”
“Your kindness and Gilbert Champeney’s hospitality.”
Oslac laughed. “Those are only minor blemishes on the face of
Maldon. What is the major wart that you see?” “Hamo FitzCorbucion.”
“And is there any hint of beauty here?”
“Spiritual beauty, yes. The priory.” “Put them both together, Master Bret.” “Together?”
“Come, come,” said Oslac, almost teasing him. “You are a highly intelligent man. If you cannot spy my meaning, you will never solve any of Tovild’s riddles. Priory and Hamo. Or put it another way, if you wish. Priory and Hamo. Mass and FitzCorbucion. What else am I saying to you?”
“Chalice and raven.”
“Excellent! And what do you have now?”
“Chalice and raven,” repeated Gervase. “The emblem of St. Benedict was a broken cup, which held poison, and a raven that removes it at his bidding. Chalice and raven. Maldon is truly Benedictine.” They shared a smile and Gervase let his mind play with the image of an emblem that had been conjured up. “Chalice and raven. The mark of a saint sits upon the town. What an extraordinary coincidence!”
“Yes,” said Oslac, growing serious. “Except that this cup holds the blood of Christ and the raven will do nobody’s bidding but his own.”
Gilbert Champeney was at his most genial that evening. He presided over the feast with loquacious cordiality, passing on items of local gossip, extolling the virtu
es of the Saxon community, and pressing his guests to try each new, enticing dish which was brought in from the kitchen. There was no hint in his effusive manner of any domestic anxieties, and his cheerful boasts about his son completely hid the deep divisions that existed between Miles Champeney and his father. Such was his love of disseminating happiness that Gilbert could even believe he enjoyed some himself.
Canon Hubert was in his element. Rich wine, delectable food, congenial company, and the fawning attentions of Brother Simon allowed him to pontificate on his favourite themes.
“The Church has effected the real conquest of England,” he said, reaching for another girdle bread. “Archbishop Lanfranc is bringing about a revolution. No other word is strong enough to describe the fundamental changes he has wrought. A veritable revolution in matters spiritual. I have discussed it with him.”
“Canon Hubert has the archbishop’s ear,” said Simon. “Who has the rest of his body?” joked Ralph.
“You remind me of poor St. Oswald,” said Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “When he was killed in battle by King Penda of Mercia, his body was sacrificially mutilated to Woden. The head, arms, and hands of St. Oswald were hung up on stakes. They were later recovered and venerated in different places. The head was buried in Lindisfarne but moved elsewhere in time. The arms were deposited at Bamborough, although one was later stolen by a monk of Peterborough and taken to Ely. The body was buried at Oswestry, then translated to Bardney, then on again to Gloucester. Holy men in Durham claim to have seen his uncorrupted hands.” He gave a reverent giggle. “St. Oswald has been all over the country to spread his cult.”
“Wait till Humphrey dies!” said Ralph. “Every red-blooded man in England will want his relics.”
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