Domesday Books
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret are commissioners, appointed by William the Conqueror, to look into the serious irregularities that come to light during the compilation of Domesday Book, the great survey of England. Delchard is a Norman soldier who fought at the Battle of Hastings, and who does not suffer fools gladly. Bret, a talented lawyer, comes from mixed Saxon and Breton parentage. They make a highly effective crime-fighting team in a violent and unstable period of history. Each of the books in the series takes them to a different English county.
Edward Marston was born and brought up in Wales. He read Modern History at Oxford then lectured in the subject for three years before becoming a full-time freelance writer.
www.edwardmarston.com
Domesday Books:
THE WOLVES OF SAVERNAKE
THE RAVENS OF BLACKWATER
THE DRAGONS OF ARCHENFIELD
THE LIONS OF THE NORTH
THE SERPENTS OF HARBLEDOWN
THE STALLIONS OF WOODSTOCK
THE HAWKS OF DELAMERE
THE WILDCATS OF EXETER
THE FOXES OF WARWICK
THE OWLS OF GLOUCESTER
THE ELEPHANTS OF NORWICH
THE RAVENS OF
BLACKWATER
EDWARD MARSTON
DOMESDAY BOOK 2
Ostara Publishing
Originally Published 1994
Copyright © Edward Marston
Edward Marston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A CIP reference is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781906288167
Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom
Ostara Publishing
13 King Coel Road
Lexden
Colchester CO3 9AG
www.ostarapublishing.co.uk
To my beloved daughter,
Sister Helena Rose,
of the Convent of St. Prudentia
Fortiter in re, suaviter in modo
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Prologue
BLACKWATER HALL SEEMED TO HOVER LIKE A BIRD OF PREY OVER THE RIVER estuary whose name it held in its eager talons. Built on a grassy knoll, it stood a mile or so below the town of Maldon and commanded a superb view of the battlefield where the Danes had won a famous victory almost a century earlier. Northey Island looked much now as it did then, a triangular lump caught in the very throat of the river and linked to the mainland by the slender causeway across which the invaders had surged at low tide. Saxon courage had not been able to withstand the might of the Danish army and Northey was a sad memento of defeat. Beyond it was the oval shape of Osea Island and beyond that the River Blackwater pursued its serpentine course past a succession of creeks and inlets, which were fringed with marshes, mud flats, saltpans, and sandbanks.
The house was imposing. Most of the dwellings in Maldon and the surrounding area were built of timber and roofed with thatch or shingled wood. They were simple structures. Blackwater Hall bore no resemblance to the long, low manor house that it had so comprehensively replaced. Constructed of stone, imported for the purpose from Caen, it was proud and tall with a menacing solidity. Its ground floor was used for storage. The main hall was on the first floor, reached by an exterior flight of stone steps. Above the hall was a gallery off which the various apartments ran. Narrow arched windows looked out with cold disdain. A tiled roof added to the sense of strength and invincibility. Blackwater Hall was like the keep of a Norman castle, an impression that was reinforced by the outbuildings, which were grouped around it to form a courtyard and by the high stone wall, which enclosed the whole property. It was at once built for defence and poised for attack.
Algar despised the place. As he stood there shivering in the courtyard, he had no time to admire the house or to enjoy its splendid view. Nor did he wish to be reminded of the Battle of Maldon even though he had named his son after one of its most noble heroes. Wistan, the Saxon warrior, had killed three Danes before being overwhelmed; Wistan, the fifteen-year-old boy, was being forced to watch his father's punishment. Algar could cope with his sickness and could endure the pain that was coming, but he could do neither if his only son was there to witness his humiliation. It was too much to bear. In the bright sunshine of a summer afternoon, Algar was shaking uncontrollably.
“Hold him still!” ordered the steward.
The soldiers tightened their grip on the hapless slave. When Wistan took a protective step forward, a mailed fist knocked him unceremoniously away. His face was on fire and blood trickled from his nose but there was nothing he could do. The steward had four soldiers to help him and a dozen more within earshot. The handful of villeins who lurked by the stables were too frightened to protest, let alone to interfere. They were creatures of the lord of the manor and he had taught them their place. Another lesson was now about to be handed out.
“Where is the rogue!”
“Here, my lord.”
“That miserable bundle of rags?”
“His name is Algar.”
“I can smell his stink from here.”
“He refuses to work.”
“He has no right to refuse!”
Guy FitzCorbucion was striding arrogantly towards them from the house. At his side, with a quieter tread and a more composed manner, was his younger brother, Jocelyn. They were the heirs of Blackwater, the sons of the mighty Hamo FitzCorbucion, a Norman knight who had fought with such ferocity and distinction at Hastings that he had been rewarded with substantial holdings in Essex as well as in other countries. Hamo lived in Maldon and held his honorial court there. When his father was absent—Hamo had returned on business to his native Coutances—Guy was in charge of the estate. It was a role that he relished.
He confronted the miscreant with derisive contempt.
“Look at this pile of ordure!” he sneered. “The cur cannot even hold himself like a proper man.”
“The fellow is ill,” noted Jocelyn with a distant sympathy. “He has the ague upon him.”
“No!” said Guy. “He is trembling with fear and so he should! I have important concerns here at Blackwater. I do not like to be troubled by a lazy, good-for-nothing slave.”
“I am not lazy, my lord,” croaked Algar.
“Be quiet!” yelled Guy.
“Fever has made me weak and—”
“Silence!”
The command was accompanied by a kick in the stomach, which made the Saxon double up in pain. Wistan's anger stirred but he stood rooted to the spot. He and his father were the lowest of the low, mere slaves on the estate of a Norman lord, tied to an existence of unceasing and unvarying toil. They had no freedom, no hope, no right to reply. Hamo FitzCorbucion owned them. His sons could treat them like the beasts of the field mat they were.
Algar mastered his distress and pulled himself upright He wanted at least to offer a token show of defiance in front of his son, but his strength failed him. Worn out by work on the land, Algar had now been wasted by fever. He was barely forty, yet he looked like a decrepit old man. He managed to throw a glance of hatred at Guy FitzCorbucion. The young man exemplified the family name. Corbucion. The raven. A harbinger of death. Guy had the same jetblack hair, yellow eyes, and beaklike nose as his father. His voice was the same insistent caw. He fed on carrion like Algar.
Guy flashed a look of disapproval at the steward.
“Why do you bother
us with this offal?” he said.
“I warned him, my lord.”
“You should have beaten him soundly.”
“Why, so I did,” said the steward, “and the marks are clear upon him. But still he would not give service. I told him that he would be brought before you. He ignored me.”
“Vile wretch!”
“He feigned illness.”
“Saxon cunning.”
“He will not work.”
“Wait till I have finished with him!” said Guy darkly. “The insolent dog will beg me to let him work.”
He turned back to Algar with a malevolent smile. The slave shuddered. He knew what to expect. Norman overlords were a law unto themselves. They dispensed summary justice on their estates. Guy FitzCorbucion was typical of the breed and symbolised the hideous changes that had afflicted the county. When the manor had belonged to Earl Derwulf, there were freemen and smallholders in abundance. Algar had been a cotter on the estate, rendering service to his lord in return for a cottage and a tiny patch of land. Now he had been reduced to the status of a slave. Since the Conquest, everybody in Maldon was worse off. Freemen lost their freedom, sokemen surrendered their rights, and smallholders had their land confiscated.
While Algar shivered in his rough woollen tunic, two young Normans stood over him in their rich mantles. While the peasant and his son struggled to survive, the ravens of Blackwater lived in luxury. Algar felt that he was no longer a true man. His bones had been picked clean by the invaders.
Guy indicated a post on the far side of the courtyard.
“Tie him up!” he snarled. “I'll whip some obedience into his miserable carcass!”
“Wait!” said Jocelyn, hand raised to stop the soldiers from dragging their cargo away. “You are too harsh, Guy.”
“Keep out of this, brother.”
“It is a matter for Father.”
“Father would run the man through with his sword.”
“He would at least hear the fellow speak.”
“A slave refuses to work. That says all.”
“Suspend judgement until Father returns.”
“And let them call me weak?” said Guy vehemently. “Never! I hold the reins here. When an animal falters, it must feel the lash of my displeasure.” He leaned in to glare at his brother. “You are too soft, Jocelyn. They will not respect you for it. Saxons only understand one thing.” He pointed once more to the post. “String him up!”
But Algar would not submit to an ordeal that he knew would kill him. Guy FitzCorbucion was a big man with a strong arm. The whipping would be merciless. Algar was not going to be flayed in front of his son. He wanted to leave Wistan with a sense of pride in his father and there was only one way to do that. Therefore, as the two soldiers tried to pull him away, he summoned all of his remaining energy and struck. Breaking free of their hold, he flung himself at Guy and got angry hands around his throat. It was a bold bid but it was doomed to failure.
The young Norman reacted with speed. Incensed that the slave should dare to attack him, he beat him to the ground with pummelling fists, then reached down to lift him bodily into the air. Algar was held briefly above Guy's head and was then dashed into a trough with ruthless violence. There was a loud crack as the slave's head hit the thick stone and his whole frame sagged lifelessly into the brackish water. Wistan ran forward to help his father but he was far too late. In trying to escape one death, Algar had met another, but at least he had done so with a degree of honour.
Wistan lifted his father gently from the trough and embraced the sodden body. Tears ran down the boy's face but rebellion was burning inside him. Algar's death had to be avenged and Wistan made a silent vow to his murdered father. However, when he looked up to direct his venom at the culprit, Guy FitzCorbucion was no longer there. Laughing aloud, he was sweeping towards the house with his dark mantle flapping behind him like a pair of wings.
Chapter One
IT WAS LATE WHEN THEY REACHED LONDON AND THE SONOROUS BELL OF ST. MARTIN'S-le- Grand was signalling the curfew as their horses clattered over the wooden bridge, which spanned the broad back of the Thames. A long day in the saddle proved exhausting and all that most of them sought was simple refreshment and a comfortable bed. Early the next morning London awakened them with its urgency and clamour. It was a large city with almost fifteen thousand inhabitants, all of whom, judging by the uproar, seemed to have converged on the various street markets to buy, sell, haggle, or solely to contribute to the general din. Visitors used to the quieter life of Winchester were at first startled by the boisterous activity. After a hasty breakfast, they went out to take stock of this deafening community.
Ralph Delchard's attention went straight to the Tower.
“Look at it!” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “A perfect monument to our victory over the English.”
“It's a sign of fear,” said Gervase Bret.
“Normans fear nobody!”
“Then why build such a fortress, Ralph, unless it be to have a place in which to hide in safety?”
“We have no need to hide, Gervase. All this is ours. We own London. The Tower was built to remind its citizens of that fact. Besides,” he added, waving a dismissive hand at the dwellings all around them, “would you have King William live in one of these wood and wattle huts that will blow over in the first strong wind? A conqueror's head cannot lie beneath a roof of musty thatch. He demands a castle.”
“In order to feel secure.”
“In order to proclaim his position.”
“And fend off apprehension.”
“No!”
Ralph Delchard did not like to be contradicted at any time, even by such a close and valued friend as Gervase Bret. The former was a Norman lord, the latter a Chancery clerk; they worked supremely well together in the royal service but there were occasions when their differences showed through. Ralph tried to win the argument by pulling rank.
“I fought at Hastings,” he said.
“So did my father,” countered Gervase.
“Indeed, he did—God rest his soul! A mere Breton, he may have been but he chose the right leader to serve. Your father died in battle, Gervase. I went on with Duke William to complete the Conquest of this troublesome land.”
A deep sigh came from the younger man. “Yes, Ralph. You have recounted the story often.”
“Not often enough, it appears,” said the other, “for you have forgotten some important details. We marched north from Sussex towards London and Duke William, as he then was, asked to be admitted, but the city was full of stubborn Saxons and the portreeve refused to open the gates to us. That made William angry. So he led us in a great circle around London, destroying and burning everything in our path. The city found itself at the centre of a ring of fire and devastation.”
“It will never forget that—or forgive it.”
“When William came back to London, they let him in.”
“Only in return for a charter that guaranteed their ancient liberties. His welcome was conditional.”
“I was here, Gervase,” said Ralph, grinning proudly at the memory. “We entered the city like conquerors.”
“Then built fortresses to skulk in.”
“No!”
“We spent the night in one of them,” observed Gervase with a glance over his shoulder. “Castle Baynard. Close by it stands Montfichet Tower. Even they and this stronghold in front of us are not enough to calm the Conqueror's nerves for he built another castle downstream at Windsor.”
“Be careful, lad. Do not mock the King.”
“Then do not overpraise him.”
“We are his servants, Gervase, and that demands loyalty. You sometimes forget which side you are on.”
“I am on the side of justice.”
“Norman justice,” said Ralph. “Rights of conquest.”
There were seven of them. Accompanied by five men-at-arms, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were sitting astride their horses in Cheapside, the main th
oroughfare and marketplace of the city. People thronged and gave them the usual collection of resentful looks and watchful stares. Ralph was a big, powerful man with a mailed jerkin beneath his mantle and a sword and dagger at his belt. The knights, all part of his personal retinue, wore the helms and hauberks, which were now such familiar sights all over England. Gervase was of medium height and slighter build than his companions. The studious air and the sober attire of a clerk concealed a wiry body, which was well able to take care of itself in physical combat. Ralph and the others were essentially Normans; however, Gervase came of mixed Breton and Saxon parentage. He saw things through somewhat wider eyes.
The Tower of London dominated the city. It was a three-storeyed palace-keep with dressings of Caen stone and it rose to a height of ninety feet. At its base, the walls were fifteen feet thick although they narrowed slightly as they climbed up towards the turrets. Work still continued on the interior of the building but its chill message was already delivered by the daunting exterior. The Normans were there to stay. In the most uncompromising way, the Tower announced the strength of the invaders and the irreversibility of their daring conquest. Ralph Delchard thought it made the surrounding Saxon and Viking architecture look rickety and insubstantial. In his heart, Gervase Bret would always share the feelings of the underdogs.
Ralph chuckled and clapped his friend on the back.
“Come, Gervase,” he said. “Let me show you the sights.”
“I have been to London before, Ralph.”
“Not to this part, I warrant.”
He threw the remark to his men, who guffawed at the private joke. They knew where they were going and what they expected to find there. Ralph's knees nudged his horse forward and he cut a path through the crowd for the little cavalcade. They went past tables loaded with fruit, baskets filled with vegetables, stalls festooned with animal skins, and cages alive with squawking poultry. Pungent smells blended into a universal stench that assaulted the nostrils. The cacophony was unrelenting. Ralph struck off to the left and took them through a maze of streets and alleys whose names made no attempt to disguise the nature of the business that was transacted there. Gropecuntelane brought a blush to Gervase's cheeks and a chortle of approval from those who could translate the blunt Anglo- Saxon into its vulgar equivalent in Norman-French.
The Ravens of Blackwater Page 1
