Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“I am proud to do so.”

“What other saints do you revere?” “All of them.”

“A Benedictine house must surely love St. Benedict.”

“So we do, sir.”

“Then there is St. Oswald.” “St. Oswald?”

“The martyr,” he said. “Oswald, King of Northumbria. It was a holy

relic of his that took you to Barking Abbey. That was the purpose of your visit, was it not?”

“Why, yes,” she said uncertainly.

“How much earth are you carrying with you?” “Earth?”

“From the place where Oswald fell in battle.”

“A tiny amount, that is all.” She was mildly flustered but soon recovered her poise. “You are very well informed about our English saints.”

“So I should be. The master of the novices used to beat us soundly if we did not learn our lessons properly.”

Curiosity made her turn to him for the first time. “You were a pos-

tulant?” she said. “At which monastery?” “Eltham Abbey.”

Disappointment showed. “A Norman foundation.”

“It had due respect for native saints.” To subdue her reservations, he gave her further proof. “St. Oswald was much admired at Eltham. Our abbot took such an interest in him that he actually visited the battlefield where the saint was struck down by Penda, the pagan King of Mercia. The place is in Shropshire, although its name eludes me.”

“Maserfield.”

“Thank you, Sister Tecla.”

“Miracles took place at the very spot where he fell.”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “Praying with his last breath for the souls of the bodyguards who were slain with him. Our abbot told us that so many people have been to Maserfield to get some of the precious earth that they dug a deep trench. St. Oswald’s power reaches well below ground for we have seen how the particles that Prioress Mindred carries are still able to work their magic.”

“They brought you to us in our time of trial.” “Perhaps they, too, had heard of the miracles.” “Who?”

“The men who attacked you.”

An involuntary shiver. “I have tried to forget them.” “They must have been after something,” he probed. “It was terrifying.”

“Did they try to snatch the holy relic?”

“I thought we would all be killed.” “Did they grab at the sacred books?” “Then you saved us.”

“What did those men hope to get?”

But the directness of his question brought the exchange to an end. Sister Tecla shot him a look of betrayal then urged her horse forward at a trot until she caught up with Prioress Mindred. Safe under the wing of the older woman, she was clearly not going to stir from there for the remainder of the journey. Gervase cursed himself for having blundered. At the very moment he was establishing a rapport with her, he had thrown it away by rushing the procedure. What had been gleaned, however, was confirmation of their earlier suspicion. The men who laid the ambush on the previous day had been after a specific prize and neither of the nuns was ready to disclose what it was. They had something to hide. Gervase Bret spent the rest of the morning wondering what it could be.

Wistan knew that they would come for him. As soon as the body of Guy FitzCorbucion was found in the waters of the River Blackwater, the boy feared for his safety. Word spread quickly through the estate and there were several who raised a cheer or said a prayer of thanks at the news. The most loathed member of a loathsome family had been murdered and that was a cause for celebration. If it had been left to those who lived and worked on the demesne, the killer would have been rewarded with instant sainthood. He had overcome a veritable force of evil.

He moved swiftly. Wistan had lingered until darkness fell, then he ran for his life. The river was cold but he was a strong swimmer and he cleaved his way with powerful arms towards the distant blob of Northey Island. Once there, he sought cover and felt marginally more secure. Nobody would search for him at night. When morning came, he went deeper into the island and scooped himself a hiding place in the long grass. The sun soon dried his wet clothes and the fruit he had brought filled his belly. All he could do now was to lie low and hope that they did not find him.

Wistan had aged considerably. Within the space of little more than a week, a fifteen-year-old boy had turned into a full-grown man. When his father had been killed in front of him, the iron had entered his soul; when Algar was buried in his miserable grave, the boy had renewed his vow of revenge. As he hid in his lair and kept on the alert, Wistan felt more embittered than ever, but there was one consolation. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead. The man who had killed Wistan’s father had himself been cut down without mercy. It was no more man he deserved. Wistan burst into silent laughter and rocked happily to and fro.

His grisly mirth was short-lived. Something on the mainland caught his eye. Deep in his burrow, he saw a distant column of smoke rising into the clear blue sky and he knew instantly what it meant. They were searching for him. They had seen that he had fled and so they set fire to his hovel. The little wooden hut that he had shared with his father all those years was being destroyed out of sheer spite. Thatch burned well and the smoke was now billowing. Wistan was unmoved. He was not afraid of them any longer. They had simply given him one more reason to hate the ravens of Blackwater.

Long before they reached Maldon, they saw it rising majestically before them in the distance. Surrounded by fertile farm land, it sat on the top of a steep hill, which overlooked the estuary and the lower reaches of the Chelmer and Blackwater valleys. It was a prosperous town of well over a thousand inhabitants, most of whom were engaged in agriculture or related occupations, but with a sizeable number who made their living as fishermen and coastal traders. A few, with larger crafts and greater ambitions, sailed across to France and the Low Countries to develop international commerce. Maldon’s position, high on a tidal estuary, made it one of the key ports in the region. Apart from Colchester, it was the only place in Essex that had been given borough status and its preeminence was marked by three churches, a royal mint, and a flourishing market. After a painstaking journey from one small village to another, the travellers were glad to see a real town dominating the horizon and to know that they would reach their destination before nightfall.

Ralph Delchard was pleased with their achievement.

“I feared we might not get here before dark,” he said, “but those nuns sit on fine palfreys that will trot for hours on end. I have never seen religion ride so fast.”

“They were as anxious to reach Maldon as we were,” said Gervase, beside him. “We questioned them too closely and that lent spurs to their heels.”

“Prioress Mindred gave nothing away.” “Nor did Sister Tecla.”

“We will have to be more guileful with them,” decided Ralph. “They are certainly concealing something from us and I intend to find out what it is.”

“All will be revealed in time.”

“Conduct them safely to their priory, Gervase.” “Why me?”

“Because I am not ready to ride into the town.” “But that hill should give us a wonderful view.”

“That is my fear,” admitted Ralph. “A wonderful view of the sea. I am too weary to cope with that now. It would turn my stomach and prevent my sleep.”

“Take heart, Ralph,” said the other. “All you would see from Maldon is the river estuary. The sea itself is miles away from the town.”

“Water is water. I prefer the sight of land.”

Gervase Bret was puzzled. Ralph Delchard was such a courageous man-and had proved it on so many occasions-that it was difficult to believe anything could actually frighten him. With a sword in his hand, the Norman lord would meet any adversary without flinching but the arts of war could not subdue the rolling waves. Gervase could think of only one reason why the sea should exert such power over his friend. Ralph could not swim.