Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

Oslac the Priest was old enough to remember what life in Maldon had been like before the Conquest and young enough to adapt successfully to its harsh consequences. The three hides of land that he had once owned had been summarily confiscated by the Normans, but Oslac was philosophical about it. He still retained his Church of

All Souls’ and his pastoral role in the community. Much of his work consisted of trying to protect his flock from a tyrannical landlord, which meant that he was constantly in dispute with the powerful Hamo FitzCorbucion. Ironically, he had now been summoned to Blackwater Hall in order to direct his sympathy and advice there.

“Why?” asked Matilda, pacing the room and twisting the ends of her belt between nervous fingers. “Guy was so young and full of life. Why did he have to die?”

“Because he was called by God,” said Oslac quietly. “For what reason?”

“Ours not to question the Almighty. We must accept His right to

take us away from this world whenever and wherever He chooses. Your brother’s death is a deep loss but it was ordained by divine will.”

Matilda stopped in front of him with her challenge. “Can divine will be so cruel?”

“My lady …”

“Can it be so brutal and pitiless?” “It only appears so.”

“My brother was murdered, Father Oslac.”

“I regret that as much as you.”

“He was battered to death and thrown into the river. Guy was in the water for days before they found him.” She spread her palms wide in her bewilderment. “Are there not kinder ways for God to summon his servants? Can such hideous slaughter really be part of a sublime plan?”

“Yes, my lady. There is a reason in all things.” “Then what is the reason here?” she demanded. “It will emerge in time.”

They were in the main hall and Oslac was finding it difficult to console Matilda FitzCorbucion. Most women in her situation collapsed into helpless grief but she was responding with anger and protest. That was a healthy sign in one way but it put the burden of justifica-tion on the shoulders of the priest. Accustomed to offer condolences in his gentle voice, Oslac was instead caught up in a spirited argument about the nature of death. Matilda would not be calmed with soft words. She wanted straight answers.

Oslac was a big man of solid build with a face that had weathered

countless setbacks, yet one that still retained its essential kindness. He had cause to hate the FitzCorbucion family as much as the rest of Maldon did, but he had come to Blackwater Hall in the spirit of Christian love and his presence was a comfort of sorts. Matilda bit her lip and shook her head in apology. She offered her hands and he took them between his own.

“You need rest, my lady,” he counselled. “How can I sleep at a time tike this?”

“I have a potion with me that will aid slumber.”

“Save it for a needier case,” she said. “I am too full of ire to take to my bed. I cried all my tears when our mother died. There are none left for Guy. I cannot weep for his death because the horror of it has enraged me. I want to know who killed him-and why?”

“That is understandable.”

“The murderer must be brought to justice.” “He will be.”

“I must know his reason.”

Matilda broke away and paced restlessly once more. Oslac watched her. She had grown up in the four years since her mother’s death. On that occasion she had been distraught and vulnerable, grieving over the loss of the one person in Blackwater Hall whom she could love and trust. Matilda was now the lady of the house and she had matured into that position. Oslac could see aspects of her parents blending perfectly in her. The tenderness of her mother was allied to the robustness of her father, the natural grace of the one with the single-mindedness of the other. Matilda also had something of Jocelyn’s questing intelligence but none of the characteristics of her other brother. When Oslac scrutinised her, Guy was invisible.

“How may I best help?” he asked. “You have done much for us already.” “Call on me for anything.”

“Track down the killer.”

“Others will do that better than I.”

“Then at least tell me his name.” Matilda confronted him again and he shifted his feet uneasily. “Do not hide it from me, Father Oslac. I know the rumours. I have heard the whispers. Guy had many enemies but one in particular longed for his death. Who was he?”

“There is such a person,” he admitted. “What is his name?”

“He may be completely innocent …” “His name!” she insisted.

Oslac hesitated to tell her the truth. While she was still stunned by the death of her brother, it seemed callous to point out that Guy himself-if reports were true-had himself committed a murder. The priest had conducted the burial service for Algar only a few days earlier and he knew that the man’s demise was not the accident the steward of Blackwater claimed it had been. The wretched slave was not the first casualty of Guy FitzCorbucion’s rage but he would certainly be the last. Matilda had been kept ignorant of the whole business and Oslac saw no value in adding to her distress.

He began to fashion an excuse but it never even left his lips. The door opened and Jocelyn came striding into the hall with the steward at his heels. He looked tired and flushed but there was little indication

of grief. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying his sudden promotion to the position of authority. It had made him decisive.

“We have sent for the sheriff,” he said. “This is work for Peter de

Valognes.”

“He will find the culprit,” said Oslac.

“That task may be done before he gets here.” “What do you mean?” asked Matilda.

“We have examined all the evidence,” said Jocelyn, “and we have taken statements from a number of people. They all say the same thing. Two of them overheard him swear revenge. Others speak of his violent nature. It must be him.”

“Who?” said Matilda.

“A boy with a reason to kill.” “A boy?”

“His name is Wistan. I’ve sent men to arrest him.”

It was over an hour before Gervase Bret managed to elicit a complete sentence out of her. Sister Tecla was reticence incarnate. As they rode along side by side, he tried every conversational gambit that he knew to provoke her into comment but she stayed beyond his reach. Up ahead of them, Ralph Delchard and Prioress Mindred were chatting volubly and even sharing an occasional laugh. The prioress had far too subtle a mind for Ralph, saw through his purpose at once, and used language to construct a wall of words around her, but at least she was talking. Most of the replies that Gervase got came from the birds or the horses. It was only when he asked the most obvious question of all that he finally broke through the nun’s studied silence.

“Are you named after St. Tecla?” he wondered. She was amazed. “You have heard of her?”

“Of course.”

“But she is a Saxon saint.”

“So are Oswald and Aldhelm and Botolph,” he observed, “but I have heard of them as well. My mother was a Saxon.”

“Yet you are in the service of the Normans.”

“The King of England is my master. He rules over all the people of this land, whatever their origin. That puts us on an equal footing as his subjects.” He felt that a smile was worth trying. “Tecla was a remarkable woman. She was a nun at Wimborne in Dorset, I believe.”

“That is true.”

“Her abbess sent her to help Boniface in his missionary work in Germany. She was much loved and respected. Her fame spread throughout Germany. When she died, a shrine was built there. Miracles occurred.” His second smile was more confident. “You bear the name of an outstanding lady.”