The Ravens of Blackwater

by Edward Marston

  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 selection 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 banquet.

  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.”

  Miles was noncommittal. “It is not my doing.”

  “One is bound to be sympathetic, surely?”

  But Gervase could still not draw him out. Whatever his views on the subject, Miles Champeney was not prepared to share them with him. The father could not be stopped from burbling about the cumulative indignities suffered by the Saxon community in Essex, but the son had nothing whatsoever to add. Gervase sensed deliberate evasion and so he switched to a topic he was fairly certain would elicit some kind of comment from the taciturn young man.

  “We saw you in the shire hall this afternoon.”

  “Did you?”

  “Why did you attend?”

  “Father asked me to accompany him.”

  “What did you think of the proceedings?”

  “They held my attention,” said Miles levelly.

  Gervase began to fish. “As you heard, Blackwater Hall is one of our main concerns. Hamo FitzCorbucion has increased his holdings quite appreciably in the past twenty years and not always by legal means.” He looked artlessly at the other man. “How did he manage to get away with it?”

  “That is for you to find out, Master Bret.”

  “Is there nobody in the town to stand up to him?”

  “It appears not.”

  “Everyone seems to loathe the FitzCorbucions. They have annexed land on every side of them and behaved as if they are the royal family of Maldon.” Gervase scrutinised the impassive face in front of him. “Is that why so few people mourn the death of Guy FitzCorbucion?” Miles was enigmatic. “He was not popular.”

  “I gathered that,” said Gervase. “In fact, when I read through all those names of dispossessed Saxons, I had the feeling that I was calling out a list of suspects.”

  “Suspects?”

  “For his murder. They all had a motive to kill him.”

  “Hamo is the lord of the manor and not Guy.”

  “Of course,” said Gervase, “but his elder son seems to have excited even greater hostility for some reason. We have not heard a good word said about Guy FitzCorbucion since we arrived in Maldon. ” He cast his line into the water again. “Can you say anything in the young man's favour?”

  Miles was emphatic. “No,” he said.

  “That conforms to the general feeling.”

  “I had no time for Guy.”

  “Nor for Jocelyn, I noticed.”

  “Jocelyn?”

  “You and he were highly displeased to see each other.”

  “I think you are mistaken about that.”

  “Your manner could hardly be called friendly,” said Gervase. “In fact, it was downright—”

  “Please excuse me,” said Miles, rising to his feet to terminate the exchange. “It is late.”

  “Is there some particular animosity between you?”

  “I am tired. I need my rest.”

  Miles Champeney spoke with politeness but there was no mistaking the glint of anger in his eyes. Gervase was deeply annoyed with himself. He had been too heavy-handed in his questioning and frightened the young man away. When Miles took his leave of the company and headed for the door, he shot a hurt look back at his interrogator. The father might be thrilled to have the royal commissioners under his roof but the son did not extend the same welcome. Gervase had definitely alienated him.

  The departure of one person was the cue for others to struggle up from the table and find their way to their chambers. Gilbert Champeney, attentive host and indefatigable gossip, was left with only Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, and Canon Hubert for company. Emboldened by the wine, the prelate decided that this was the moment to take Ralph to task for his conduct of that afternoon's meeting.

  “We shall proceed more briskly tomorrow,” he said.

  “Why?” joked Ralph. “Do you intend to stay away?”

  “No, my lord. Since you did not control matters to my satisfaction, I intend to take a more active part. Watch me and you will learn what advocacy is.”

  “Gluttony, you mean.” Ralph appealed to the others with outstretched hands. “Have you ever seen so much food eaten so fast? Ten quails went into that round belly.”

  “Four,” said Hubert.

  “Four, ten, twenty—what does it matter?” said Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “Food is one of the joys of life. When you sit at my table, take as much as you wish.”

  “Thank you, noble sir,” said Hubert before swinging his purple cheeks around to face Ralph once more. “You are only trying to deflect me, my lord. My argument remains valid. I have the greater experience in legal matters so I should lead the way. I have no peer in the ecclesiastical courts.”

  “We are not in the ecclesiastical courts,” reminded Gervase. “There is a world of difference between property disputes and the intricacies of canon law.”

  “I can master any charter of land,” boasted Hubert.

  Ralph grinned. “How many quails can you eat per acre?”

  “Be serious!”

  “I am i
n too merry a mood.”

  “We are here on urgent business.”

  “Granted,” said Ralph, “but we must discharge our duties in the right place and at the right time. We must not bore our host with our petty squabbles.” He emptied the wine in his cup. “If you want an argument to round off a splendid evening, then I have just the subject for you.”

  “What is it?” said Gilbert eagerly. “I adore argument.”

  “Marriage.”

  “Marriage?” echoed the canon.

  “Clerical marriage.”

  “It is an abomination!”

  “Yet there are married priests,” said Gervase.

  “A vice peculiar to the Saxons.”

  “That's why I find them so endearing,” said Gilbert.

  “Norman clerks have married,” resumed Ralph, determined to get his colleague on the run. “Many have had mistresses. Some have had wives and mistresses.”

  “Archbishop Lanfranc has expressly forbidden it!”

  “I know, Hubert. But the good archbishop cannot stand by the bed of every priest and monk in England to make sure that they get into it alone.”

  Gilbert sniggered. “Were you never tempted by female flesh, Canon Hubert?”

  “Never, sir!”

  “What about male flesh?” said Ralph, chuckling at the prelate's apoplectic reaction. “A pity!” he said. “You could otherwise have married Gilbert's wondrous cook and dined on grilled quail for the rest of your life.”

  “I'll not hear any more of this!” yelled Hubert.

  “But you have not given us your view on marriage.”

  “I embody it!”

  He manoeuvered his bulk into a vertical position and then lurched off towards the chamber, which he shared with Brother Simon. There, at least he could be assured of the total respect to which he felt his position entitled him and spend a chaste night in the company of an ascetic man who viewed the whole concept of marriage as anathema.

  Gervase was conscious of the testing day ahead of them.

  “Perhaps it is time we all retired,” he suggested.

  “I could sleep for a week,” said Ralph, succumbing to fatigue. “That was a magnificent feast, Gilbert. If Hubert does not marry your cook, then I may!”

  “He is already married.”

  “Do not tell that to our testy canon.”

  They got up from the table and walked towards the door in the flickering candlelight. Champeney Hall was unlike any Norman dwelling they had been in before and its atmosphere was curiously inviting. Ralph Delchard was drowsy but he was determined to ask one last question before he collapsed into his bed. He put an arm around Gilbert's shoulders.

  “You must know every man in Maldon, dear friend.”

  “In person.”

  “So who is this Humphrey?”

  “Humphrey?”

  “ Aureis testiculi,” said Gervase.

  “Goldenbollocks,” translated Ralph.

  “Ah, that Humphrey!” Gilbert went off into a paroxysm of giggling, then he waved Ralph away. “I am sorry, sir. I cannot tell you how he acquired the nickname. It is a secret.”

  “But it torments me,” said Ralph.

  “How do you think Humphrey feels?”

  Their host giggled afresh and leaned against a beam for support. Ralph pressed him for an explanation but in vain. On this topic, if on no other, Gilbert was discreet. Ralph gave up. After thanking him once more for his hospitality, he rolled off towards his chamber. Gervase was about to go with him when he was detained by a hand. Gilbert Champeney was not giggling now. His face was dark and his manner suddenly quite serious. Gervase thought that he had been caught up in the jollity of the occasion but his host had missed nothing of what went on around his table.

  “You must forgive my son,” he said.

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “You touched a raw spot, I fear.”

  “I merely asked him about Jocelyn FitzCorbucion,” said Gervase. “They obviously did not like each other.”

  “With good cause.” Gilbert sighed. “A sad business.”

  “Why?”

  “One of the perils of fatherhood.”

  “Perils?”

  “Raising a son who does not take your advice.”

  “You lose me here,” said Gervase.

  “Miles is not to blame— they are.”

  “They?”

  “Hamo and his monstrous brood.” Gilbert sighed again. “Jocelyn has two reasons for hating my son. Miles fought with his brother, Guy.”

  “Fought? With weapons?”

  “Hot words and fists, that is all. But I am told that my son got the better of it before the two of them were dragged apart.” He became remorseful. “Miles was a fool! I warned him not to go there. I told him to stay away from Blackwater Hall. It was bound to lead to trouble.”

  “What was?”

  “The situation, the situation. It's hopeless!”

  Gilbert broke away and paced up and down in the narrow corridor. The bibulous host was now an anxious parent. His hands flapped about in gestures of despair. Gervase stepped in to confront him.

  “Jocelyn had two reasons, you said …”

  “It was the other one that took him there.”

  “To Blackwater Hall?”

  “Jocelyn has a sister. Matilda.”

  “I begin to understand.”

  “That is more than I do, Gervase,” said the other. “It is a cruelty practised on a loving father. Why Matilda? Of all people—why her? My son could have any woman in the county, if he wanted, but he chooses a FitzCorbucion.”

  “Does the lady feel the same about him?”

  “She does, alas!”

  “You are obviously against the match.”

  “Everyone is,” wailed Gilbert. “I am against it, Hamo is against it, Guy was against it—that is why he came to blows with my son—and Jocelyn is against it. Common sense is against it. Sanity is against it. Nature is against it.”

  “But Miles is still determined?”

  “They have exchanged vows.”

  “How do they contrive to see each other?”

  “They do not,” said Gilbert. “Hamo has left orders that my son is not to be allowed near Blackwater Hall. But that does not deter him. He swears that he will wed Matilda.”

  Sorrow had finally taken its toll of Matilda FitzCorbucion. After another day of anger at her brother's death, its full impact hit her at last and she spent a sleepless night crying into her pillow or walking across the wooden floor of her bedchamber in her bare feet. The tears came less from love than from pity, because even a brother as disagreeable as Guy deserved that. As her grief deepened into a physical pain such as she had never known, Matilda came to see that she was mourning two brothers and not just one. Jocelyn was lost to her almost as much as Guy. When he was alive, Guy had either ignored or baited her and she had learned to avoid him whenever possible. Jocelyn had been her protector even when it landed him in trouble and she could always turn to him for help. That was all in the past. The moment the dead body of his brother had been found, Jocelyn changed irrevocably. He was no longer Matilda's friend but simply a more refined and calculating version of Guy.

  In the long reaches of the night, other thoughts came to stick hot needles of doubt into her brain. They were vulnerable. The most powerful family in Maldon was not the impregnable force she had supposed. Blackwater Hall might have the sombre solidity of a castle but its defences had been breached. Guy FitzCorbucion, a virile soldier with great skill in arms, had been cruelly murdered and the alleged killer was a boy of fifteen. What surging hatred must have built up inside the lad for him to commit such a heinous crime? Would such blood-lust be satiated with one death or would he turn to strike at other members of the family? The name that she had carried with such pride now seemed like a badge of doom and fear for her own life sent her racing to the heavy door to make sure that it was bolted. Fresh tears moistened her haggard face. She was grieving over
the loss of her safety. Matilda was terrified.

  Searching for comfort, she found none within Blackwater Hall. Jocelyn was dead to her and Hamo would be so furious when he discovered what had happened that she would not even be able to speak to him. After her mother's death, the person who had consoled her least was her father. Hamo was a hard and ambitious man who took what he wanted by force of character and expressed affection only by means of gifts. Matilda's plight was helpless. A home that was already fraught with tensions would now become unbearable and there would be nobody to whom she could turn. Except perhaps one man. But even as she envisioned the kind face of Miles Champeney, she knew that he could not save her either. The murder of Guy FitzCorbucion had somehow put him forever beyond her reach. Miles was one more casualty of the killer's knife.

  Prayer and rest. Oslac the Priest had advised her to pray for her dead brother's soul and to get as much sleep as she could in order to restore herself, but neither would come. Prayers died on her lips and sleep eluded her. She was instead held captive by grief and fear and gnawing doubt about the whole meaning of her life. What was the point of it all? Everything now seemed to have died with Guy. Even her hopes of escape.

  When she eventually closed her eyes, it was in a slumber of sheer exhaustion and she did not have the strength to choose the comfort of her bed. She drifted off while sitting in the window of her chamber and her troubled head rested on hard stone without even feeling it. Matilda was in a sleep of cold despair. How long she dozed she did not know, nor what it was that jerked her awake to face the pain once more. It may have been the insistent thud of the wind against the wall of the chamber, or the light slowly forcing its way in through the window with the stealth of a thief, or the dull ache in her bones from the awkwardness of her posture, or the cries of the gulls as they skimmed over water and marsh in search of their first meal of the morning.