Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“I cannot eat a thing,” said the emaciated Simon. Hubert grunted. “Then you are a fool.”

“Self-denial is a virtue.”

“Well-fed men have more strength to serve God.”

“You have said that indulgence is a sin, Canon Hubert.”

“Yes, Brother Simon,” conceded the other. “But this is not indulgence. To refuse the offer of such a repast is an insult to the kindness of our host.”

“I go along with that,” said Ralph, sipping wine from his cup. “Hubert and I have at last found something about which we can agree.” He turned back to Gilbert. “To answer your question, my lord, we will remain here until we have finished our allotted work. It is quite straightforward.”

“Whom does it mostly concern?” asked Gilbert. “Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

“Then it is not straightforward at all, I fear.”

“Why not?” asked Gervase.

“Hamo has not yet returned from Coutances.”

“Then his elder son must speak for him,” said Ralph. “That, too, presents a slight complication.”

“What is it?”

Gilbert Champeney picked at his teeth and waited till he had their full attention. He enjoyed delivering tidings that would have such an important bearing on the work of the royal commissioners. Another nervous laugh slipped out.

“Guy FitzCorbucion has been murdered.”

“Why are they calling it Domesday Book?” asked Matilda. “That need not trouble you,” said her brother.

“I wish to know, Jocelyn. Tell me.”

“When I have more time.” “It is a simple question.”

“And I will give you a simple answer. In due course.” “Now,” she insisted.

“Matilda …” “Now!”

Jocelyn FitzCorbucion clicked his tongue in irritation. He and the steward were about to leave Blackwater Hall when his sister

intercepted them. Matilda was now standing in the doorway to obstruct their exit. The dove-like softness had been shed in favour of a hard-faced persistence. She was frustrated at being excluded from everything of importance that happened on the estate. It was time for her to find out exactly what was going on. Matilda folded her arms and stuck out a combative chin.

“Well?” she demanded.

The two men exchanged a glance. Jocelyn heaved a sigh. “Explain it to her, Fulk,” he said.

“Very well, my lord.”

The steward was a fleshy man in his thirties with a smirking politeness. He had been employed on the demesne long enough to learn all its dark secrets and he was as adept at enforcing his master’s writ among the villeins and serfs on the estate as he was at dealing with the finer points of the manorial accounts. Fulk was not used to having to answer to a woman. It put the merest hint of annoyance into his voice.

“King William calls it a description of England,” he said, “but it is known as the Domesday Book in the shires because it is like the Last Judgement. These commissioners want to know everything.”

Jocelyn was brusque. “There, Matilda. You have had your explanation. Now, stand aside.” “One moment,” she said. “You are in our way.”

“The Last Judgement will weigh our sins. Is that why you are being arraigned? For some sinful acts?”

“We are not being arraigned,” he said defencively.

“Indeed not,” added Fulk smoothly. “Your brother and I merely attend a meeting at the shire hall this afternoon. The town reeve has summoned all people of consequence in Maldon so that we may hear what these commissioners have to say.” He gestured towards the door. “If you prevent us from leaving, we will be late for the gathering and that might be interpreted as a deliberate affront to them.”

She stood her ground. “Who are these commissioners?’’ “Powerful men with a royal warrant,” said Jocelyn. “Father would keep them waiting.”

“I will handle this my way, Matilda.”

“He’d send a dusty answer to the King himself.” “We have to leave. Please excuse us.”

Jocelyn tried to brush past her to get to the door but she shifted her position to block his way once more.

“Where are these commissioners staying?” she asked. “At Champeney Hall.”

She recoiled slightly at the name and her resistance faded at once. Matilda stepped aside to let them pass and stood pensively in the

open doorway as they went down the stone steps into the courtyard. Jocelyn was angry at having been challenged in that way in front of the steward. For the first time in his entire life, he was in a position of real authority at Blackwater Hall and it was being eroded by a mere woman. He loved his sister and he wanted to help her get over the shock of their brother’s sudden death but he could not tolerate such interference. It weakened his standing. He tried to pass off the incident with a forced laugh.

“Women!” he moaned. “They have to be humoured.”

“Sometimes, my lord.”

“Matilda will not be able to hinder us much longer. When my father returns, he will have a surprise for her.”

“I know.”

“He went to Normandy to arrange a marriage for her. Father will bring back the name of her future husband.”

“She needs a man to control her,” said Fulk.

The steward’s tone was deferential but there was an implied rebuke for Jocelyn in his comment. Fulk was more accustomed to the forcefulness of a Hamo or the arrogance of a Guy. He was not so far impressed by the softer edge of Jocelyn FitzCorbucion. The latter winced inwardly and resolved to show greater firmness.

His opportunity came immediately. Grooms had the horses saddled and waiting for them. As the two men mounted, there was a clatter of hooves and eight knights came cantering into the courtyard on their destriers. They reined in their mounts, who stood in a sweating half circle around Jocelyn.

“Have you caught him yet?” he snarled. “No, my lord,” said the captain.

“Search harder.”

“We have been out since first light.” “Find that boy!”

“Wistan ran off the night before last,” explained the captain. “The lad has strong legs. He could be several miles away by now.”

“Widen the search. I want him hunted down.” “Yes, my lord.”

“Question the other slaves.” “We have done so.”

“They must know where he is.” “All of them deny it.”

“Beat the truth out of them!” ordered Jocelyn, waving a fist. “Take more men and continue the search at once. That boy killed my brother. He will pay dearly for that. Get back out there. Look under every stone in the county until you find him!”

Wistan had chosen his escape route well. They would not expect him to be on the island. Throughout the night, the causeway was submerged by the tide and the dark water would deter anyone without a boat and a knowledge of the currents. A whole day had come and gone without any sign of pursuit. Evidently, they were searching on the mainland for a boy who could run instead of on Northey for one who could swim. Well into a second day in hiding, he began to feel a little safer. The island was large and the population sparse. He had over five hundred acres in which to roam. When his food ran out, he could forage for more. Wistan would live from day to day. Survival was all.

With a vague sense of security came a tattered dignity. He had

deceived them. The son of a slave had outwitted the knights from Blackwater Hall. He could never take them on in direct combat because he was hopelessly outnumbered, but he could wrest some smattering of honour from the contest. Wistan could make his father proud of him from beyond the grave. He remembered why Algar had given him his name and what its significance was at the Battle of Maldon. Wistan was a hero. The Vikings had bided their time at the very place where he himself was now lurking. When they were allowed to cross at low tide by means of the causeway, they came up against the full strength of the Saxon fyrd, the army that had been raised to defend the town. Wistan had been at the forefront of the struggle. He had accounted for three Vikings before he was cut down by the invaders.