“No, she came from Woodham. Not far south of here.” “Did she have any connection with Blackwater Hall?” “I do not believe so.”
“Think hard, please.”
“She never mentioned it to me.”
“Yet that chalice came from the hall,” said Gervase. “How do you suppose it got into Sister Tecla’s hands?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did she deliberately mislead you?”
“I intend to question her about that.” “Could she have stolen it herself?”
“No!” denied the prioress. “Sister Tecla has suffered much but she
is not capable of theft. If she said that the chalice was hers, she must have believed that it was. She is young and very fragile. Her mind has been disturbed. You must make allowances.”
“We cannot excuse theft,” said Ralph. “Especially when such a valuable item is involved. I think we had better take a look at this chalice once more, if you please?”
“That is no possible, my lord.” “Why not?”
“Until yesterday, I did not know it had belonged to Blackwater Hall. We used it in good faith to celebrate Mass. There has been no deception on my part because I was myself deceived. I swear that, on the grave of the holy St. Oswald!”
“How did you learn that the cup might be stolen?”
“From my lord, the sheriff,” she explained. “He paid us a courtesy visit yesterday evening and happened to mention that a chalice was missing from the manor house. I did not at first link it with ours- why should I? — but the very possibility kept me awake last night. This is a religious house and we will not harbour stolen goods.”
“So where is the chalice now?” asked Gervase. “On its way to Blackwater Hall.”
“You sent it back?”
“Naturally,” she said, and a note of vindication came into her voice. “You were unjust in your suspicions of us. We are holy sisters who serve God to the best of our poor abilities. We are prone to human frailty but we are not criminals, and we resent being regarded as such.” She rose to her feet with dignity to signal their departure. “I bid you good day, sirs. Look elsewhere for your thief and your murderer. You will find none here.”
Oslac the Priest tethered his horse in the courtyard and ascended the steps at Blackwater Hall. He knocked on the door and was admitted by a servant. Hamo FitzCorbucion was summoned from his chamber. He was puzzled to see the priest and even more mystified when the visitor handed him an object, which was wrapped in fine linen.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Something that you will be pleased to see, my lord.” “The head of that boy, Wistan?”
“No,” said Oslac. “It is a missing heirloom, I believe.” “The chalice!”
Hamo tore off the linen and held up the object with delight. He scrutinised it carefully to make sure that it had not been damaged in any way. The chalice was clearly very dear to him. It had belonged to his wife who had herself inherited it from her own mother before passing it on to her eldest child. Thrilled to have it back, Hamo was also anxious to punish the thief who took it away in the first place.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“It was left on the doorstep of the church, my lord.” “By whom?”
“I have no idea,” said Oslac. “But I heard that a cup of this description was missing from Blackwater Hall and so I brought it to you immediately.”
“You did well. I am very grateful.” “It is a beautiful chalice.”
“My wife bequeathed it to Guy.”
“Who will inherit it now?” wondered the priest.
Hamo seemed oddly discomfited by the question. Still hugging the chalice, he pressed his visitor for details of how and when it was found. Oslac stuck to his story because it had a strong element of truth. Counselled by him, Prioress Mindred had agreed to part with the chalice at once. One of her nuns had been deployed to place the object at the church door but Oslac had insisted that he not be told whom. When he faced Hamo, he wanted to have as few lies as possible to pass on to such a searching inquisitor. Although the priest promised to make further enquiries, he vowed inwardly that he would protect the priory. The link between the chalice and the convent had to be tactfully suppressed.
Hamo clapped him on the shoulder in gratitude and offered refreshment but Oslac politely refused.
“No, thank you, my lord,” he said. “You have business at the shire hall today, I believe, and I will not hold you up any longer. I came but to return the chalice, but since I am here …”
“Yes?”
“I would like to see my lady, Matilda.” “Why?”
“This is a house of mourning. I can offer comfort.”
“Matilda has taken to her chamber,” said Hamo.
“That is a bad sign, my lord. She should not be left to brood alone for long periods. I was able to give her much consolation when she mourned the death of your dear wife, and I am sure that I can help to sustain her again. Permit me some time alone with her and I will do what I may to revive her spirits.”
“She may not wish to see you.” “Let her be the judge of that.”
Hamo glanced at the chalice and back at him. Oslac had done him a great favour by returning the object to him. It was a good omen for the day ahead. Two vital tasks awaited him. He had to confound the royal commissioners and find his son’s killer. Matilda was an irrelevance now. Her planned elopement had been scotched and Miles Champeney had been driven away forever from the estate. Hamo felt in an almost bountiful mood for once and he reasoned that a priest could do no harm. Even if his daughter were to moan about the loss of her beloved, Oslac was powerless to do anything more than express sympathy. Matilda was still locked in her chamber, tearful and mutinous by turns, but no longer a problem to her father. He decided that a visit from the priest might actually calm her down.
“Very well,” he agreed. “Matilda is in need of comfort. Spend a little time with her and do what you may.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Tell her about the chalice. It may cheer her up.”
It had taken him a long time to find a way into the shire hall. Wistan did not wish to break a window or force a door because that would have led to a thorough search of the premises to see what had been taken by the intruder. Instead he opted for the infinitely slower process of cutting himself a way in under the eaves, skewering out the reeds with the end of his sword until he made a hole just big enough to squirm through. Once inside, he stuffed the displaced thatch back into position to cover the hole. It would not survive close inspection but he was hoping that those who came into the shire hall would be far too busy to worry about some minor damage to the roof.
When daylight began to peep in at him, he was able to choose his hiding place with care. It was high in the roof beams and right at the back of the hall. Squeezed in under the thatch, he would be completely invisible. His view was obscured by the rafters but he could hear everything. When Hamo FitzCorbucion and Jocelyn came in, he would know. The sword was out of its scabbard and resting beside him on a thick beam. He had merely to grab it and the death of Algar could at last be avenged in the only fitting way. The noise of a key in a lock made him prick his ears and tense his muscles, but there was no cause for alarm. It was the town reeve. He came in to check that everything was in order. Servants brought in refreshments and set them out on the trestle table before scurrying back out. The reeve himself soon left. Wistan was satisfied with his vantage point. They could not see him.
It was not long before two other figures entered. Their voices were raised in argument as they made their way towards the table at the far end of the hall.
“That is the last time I put faith in riddles, Gervase!” “I still think that we were on the right track.”
“Follow it on your own!”
“Tovild witnessed that murder.”
“Yes,” said a peeved Ralph. “At the Battle of Maldon.”
Gervase reflected. “Magpie. I a
m certain the answer was magpie. What else could it be, Ralph?”
“I have no idea, but I am not barging in there again like that. It was
an ordeal!” He pointed a finger. “There I was, waiting for you to pull out that murder weapon and thrust it under her nose so that she would confess-and what happens? You never even got the chance. She was plainly innocent of everything of which we accused her. We were made to look complete fools, Gervase. We were wrong about her, wrong about Sister Tecla, wrong about the knife, wrong about Oslac, and wrong about the whole stupid idea of magpies!” He perched on the edge of the table. “What, in God’s name, did we actually get right?”
“That chalice.”
“It takes a lot to make me blush-but I did!”
“That must have been the reason for the ambush.” “A nun embarrassing me! It’s unthinkable.”
“All we have to do is to find out how that chalice got there in the first place and why Guy FitzCorbucion-it had to be him-was so keen to get it back.” He turned to Ralph. “You’re not listening to me.”
“No, Gervase. I’ve had enough for one morning.” “But we have picked up the trail.”
“It leads straight back to mad old Tovild!” yelled Ralph. “This is all a game that he’s playing with us. Hunt the Magpie! The only bird that comes into this is a great black raven named Hamo.”
“Calm down, Ralph.”
“The chalice is back with the raven again! Hamo can don a cowl and pass himself off as St. Benedict!” He went off into a mirthless laugh then gave a sigh of apology. “I am sorry, Gervase, but I hate to be caught on the wrong foot like that. The chalice was the essence of our case but the prioress denied all knowledge of its true ownership. And I believe the noble lady. You heard her. She swore on the grave of St. Oswald.”
“Indeed, she did …”
Gervase Bret stared straight ahead with eyes glistening and mouth agape. He was deep in contemplation. He thought about the spiritual collapse of a young woman. He thought about a child playing with a doll. He thought about the ambush, a pile of holy earth, and two nuns chanting a Saxon charm in a church. He thought about a discussion that morning of the nature of crime and punishment. He thought about a murdered man and a chalice and the one certain thing that might connect them. He punched Ralph in his excitement and let out a cry of delight.
“St. Oswald!” he exclaimed. “St. Oswald!”
“What about him?”
“Saxon nuns would revere a Saxon saint.” “Where does that get us?”
“St. Benedict was an Italian.”
“Even I know that, Gervase.”
“It was St. Oswald who saved them from that ambush!” “I like to think that we gave Oswald a spot of help.” “He is the link with Blackwater Hall.”
“Who?”
“St. Oswald! Do you not see? We chose the wrong saint!”
Ralph was more bewildered than ever but Gervase was not able to enlighten him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon came in with satchels of documents and a sheaf of complaints. A crowd was forming outside. The intention had been to examine Hamo FitzCorbucion on his own before bringing his accusers in on the following day to confront him, but word had got around about that morning’s session. Saxon burgesses and Norman barons alike wanted to be there to view Hamo’s disgrace. Gilbert Champeney had also come along in the hopes of being admitted to the proceedings. The pressure to change their original plans and to allow a more public debate was intense.
Brother Simon was against the idea on principle and Canon Hubert was even more determined to keep the self-appointed spectators at bay. Gervase slowly persuaded them by pointing out that the contest between good and evil, which Hubert had set up, deserved the largest possible audience. Hamo FitzCorbucion should be both humiliated and seen to be humiliated by the people over whom he had ridden roughshod for so many years. Canon Hubert had trumpeted the virtues of a visible justice only that morning over breakfast. He should be ready to open the doors to anyone who wished to come in. Ralph Delchard added his support to this argument. They had come to Maldon to clean up the filth of Hamo’s tyranny. The town had a right to watch them do it.
Hubert relented, Brother Simon withdrew his opposition, and the town reeve was given new instructions. The public would be admitted. As the commissioners settled down in their chairs, eager faces came streaming in through the door and the benches were rapidly filled.
Ralph had time for only the briefest exchange with Gervase, who sat next to him.
“Do not leave me hanging in the air!” he said.
“We will talk about it later, Ralph.”
“At least give me some idea. The wrong saint?” “St. Oswald is our man.”
“But why? What is so special about him?”
“His emblem.” “Emblem?”
“Do you know what it is?”
“If you tell me it has a magpie on it, I’ll go berserk!” “No magpies, Ralph, I promise you.”
“Then what?”
“A raven and a ring.”
“I thought you would condemn me for disobedience,” she said. “Why should I do that, my lady?”
“A father has a right to choose my husband.” “You have a right to be consulted.”
“He does not see it that way.”
“No,” agreed Oslac, “I imagine that he does not. Your father is so used to making decisions that he will not stand for any objection to them. You and he have very different ideas about marriage. My lord, Hamo, is selecting a husband so that he can join family to family and not heart to heart.”
“Miles Champeney is the man I want.”
“I marvel that the two of you managed to get so far.” “We have exchanged vows.”
“True love thrives on adversity.”
They were in Matilda’s chamber at the top of the house. Oslac had been taken along the gallery by a servant. The guard had been removed from outside but the door was still locked and the priest soon understood why. Having come to console Matilda over the death of her brother, he found her mounting the loss of the man she loved. He was shocked to hear of her incarceration in her own home and of the brutal treatment of Miles Champeney. It was a situation in which he felt he ought to offer practical assistance.
A shout took them both to the window. Down in the courtyard, Hamo FitzCorbucion had mounted his white destrier and pulled out his sword. He was wearing full armour and looked a most striking figure. Jocelyn was with him and so was Fulk the Steward but they were lost in the armed escort. Hamo was bristling. If the commissioners dared to call him before them, he intended to arrive at the hall with forty knights at his heels in a display of naked force. The visit to Coutances had not just produced a potential son-in-law. It had rekindled the hot blood that ran in his veins. Hamo envied the chaos of Normandy where barons like himself built castles without license and conducted their private wars unimpeded. That was the spirit that was needed in England. He would answer to no man and bend the knee to no king. With another loud yell, he led the full troop out of the courtyard and towards the town. Victory was assured.
Matilda watched them go, then stayed at the window for a few minutes. When she turned to Oslac, her eyes were moist. “You must think me very callous,” she said.
“Why?”
“My brother lies in the churchyard and all that I can do is to talk about myself.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “But I do care about Guy. He had many faults but he did not deserve such a hideous death. I have been ashamed, Father Oslac. I should be weeping for a brother’s death and praying for his soul. I should be hoping that they will soon catch his murderer.”
“And do you hope that, my lady?”
She shrugged. “I do and I do not.”
“Your mind is too full of Miles Champeney.” “Father threw him into the dungeon!”
“It was an unkind way to welcome a suitor,” said Oslac with mild irony, “but it is not altogether unusual. Fathers often disapprove of the men whom their daughters f
avour as husbands. They may not all go to the extent of flinging an unwanted son-in-law into a cell, but they can make their opposition very clear.” He gave a nostalgic smile. “I know that to my cost.”
“You?”
“I was young once, my lady.” “Of course.”
“And even a priest may fall in love.”
“I have met your wife. She is a charming woman.”
“Her father did not think me a very charming man,” he said. “In fact, he found me unsuitable in every way and made no bones about telling me so to my face. He swore that he would not let his daughter marry beneath her. His opinion of priests was not high. It was a trying time for us.”
“Yet the marriage went ahead.” “Eventually.”
“How?”
“It is not for me to put ideas into your head, my lady.” “Ideas?”
He studied her for a moment. “You are right to reproach yourself,” he said seriously. “It is only fitting that you should grieve for a brother who has passed away. I think it might help if you were to visit the churchyard and pay your respects at his grave.”
“But Father will not allow me out of this house.” “He is not here to enforce that decree.”
“There was a guard outside my door.”
“He is not there now,” said Oslac. “You watched the troop ride out. My lord, Hamo has taken all his men-at-arms with him.”
“There are still servants in the house.”
“A lady may command a servant.”
“What if they try to stop me?”
“Tell them that I am escorting you to the church. They would not dare to stand in the way of a priest, would they?” His eyes twinkled. “The decision must be yours, my lady.”
The shire hall was now so full that latecomers had to stand pressed against the walls. Ralph Delchard’s men-at-arms could barely find room for themselves at the rear of the building. Up in the rafters, Wistan could hear the noisy jostling and feel the sense of expecta-tion. The whole of Maldon seemed to have come along to witness the encounter but one of the disputants had failed to turn up. Was Hamo FitzCorbucion scorning the summons of royal commissioners? If he did not come, did they have the means to compel him? Gervase Bret’s acuity and Canon Hubert’s gravitas had impressed all the witnesses who had appeared before them and they had also admired Ralph Delchard’s brisk authority. But none of these things could be brought into play if the lord of the manor of Blackwater ignored their warrant. As the appointed time came and went, murmurs of doubt began to swell. The summons was being spurned.
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