Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

Guy FitzCorbucion was an invader and he was dead. The boy felt a warm glow inside him every time he savoured that thought. He wanted to destroy all the ravens of Blackwater. They might catch him in the end but he hoped to take full revenge first. Like the Wistan of old, he intended to fight to the death and take some of the vile invaders with him. His own father had shown him the way. Algar had gone down with a last brave show of spirit. As the boy recalled it now, it buttressed his resolution. He thought about the way that he would best like to kill Hamo FitzCorbucion.

A snuffling sound brought him out of his reverie and he huddled into his hiding place in the long grass. They were searching for him on the island, after all. He could see nothing from his burrow but the sound was slowly getting closer. Wistan grabbed the crude knife that was tucked in his belt. He would have to live up to his namesake sooner than he had anticipated but he was not afraid. Excitement made his heart thud and his temples pound. He held his breath as the snuffling got louder and the grass was trampled. He lay curled in a ball until his adversary was almost upon him and then he unwound like a spring, rising up on his knees and using the knife to jab with vicious force.

He caught the sheep a glancing blow on its shoulder and blood oozed swiftly into its fleece. With a leap in the air and a bleat of pain, it went careering across the field to join the rest of the herd. Wistan was both stunned and relieved. He was sorry to have wounded the animal but glad that he had not been run to earth. There was no sign of a human being but sheep were now grazing all over the area. It was time to find a new hiding place. Gathering his meagre belongings, he crept through the grass with the stealth of a fox. Wistan was the quarry in a murder hunt but that prospect did not trouble him any more. It had started to be exhilarating.

The shire hall occupied a prime position near the junction of Silver Street and High Street. Timber-framed and roofed with thatch, it was a large building with a murky interior that smelled in equal parts of dampness, decay, and some unspecified farm animal. A sparrow was hopping along the rafters and spiders had turned the whole of the ceiling into a continuous and interconnecting series of elaborate webs. The walls were roughly plastered and some attempt had been made to decorate them with simple patterns. There were several windows but they seemed to keep out more light than they admitted. The hall was built solely for communal use. Comfort and decoration were after-thoughts.

“I wonder if he will turn up,” mused Ralph Delchard. “Who?” said Gervase Bret.

‘‘Humphrey Goldenbollocks.” “Keep your voice down!”

“We could do with him in tins gloom,” observed Ralph with a glance around. “He can stand on the table here and shed light on the whole business by displaying his golden orbs. The meeting will be illumi-nated by bollock light. Yes, I do hope that Humphrey will come.”

“I am more interested in someone else,” confessed Gervase. “Sister Tecla, by any chance?”

“No, Ralph!”

“She liked you, I could tell.”

“I will probably never see her again.”

“She’ll contrive a tryst somehow,” teased the other. “Nuns do not place their affections lightly.” The musty atmosphere made him cough. “So who are you interested in meeting in this miserable cave of a hall?”

“Tovild.”

“Who?”

“Tovild,” said Gervase. “He is mentioned in the returns a number of times. Tovild the Haunted.”

“What is it that haunts the man?”

“I have no idea.”

“Could it be Humphrey Goldenbollocks?”

“He is too busy haunting Ralph Delchard!”

They traded a laugh and took their seats as Canon Hubert and Brother Simon made their way towards them. The town reeve had been busy. He had not only summoned all interested parties to the meeting, he had arranged for the shire hall to be prepared in readiness for the event. Trestle tables had been set up at one end of the room for the commissioners and chairs had been placed behind them. Ralph took up a central position to reflect his status as leader of the quartet. Gervase sat to one side of him and Hubert to the other. Simon was on the fringe of it all with parchment and writing materials in front of him. Acting as the scribe to the proceedings, he was trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Canon Hubert, by contrast, was more rotundly self-important than ever after another delicious meal at Champeney Hall. He bulked large.

The four of them arrived well before the meeting was due to start so that they could settle in and study once more the various documents relating to the ownership of property in the region. Ralph Delchard also took care with the disposition of his knights. Two of them were stationed outside the main door while the other six stood guard just inside it. Their chain mail had been cleaned, their helmets polished, and their swords freshly sharpened. They made an imposing sight and every visitor would be able to read the message that was implicit in their presence. The royal commissioners were there on serious business.

“Are we ready to receive them?” said Ralph, looking from one colleague to another and receiving affirmative nods from each. “Very well. Let us fight the Battle of Maldon.”

He gave a signal to the captain of his guard and the man stepped out into the street. The townspeople then began to drift in. A clerk had been positioned near the entrance so that he could record the name of everyone who attended. First came the burgesses, local men who owned a house, land, or both and thus had a recognised status in the borough. Only a proportionate number had been invited by the town reeve but others came along out of curiosity and apprehension. Royal commissioners were always bad news. The earlier team had caused immense upset in the town with the vigour of their enquiries and the threat of higher taxation. Saxon burgesses were justifiably resentful. Norman overlords had already seized their property and bled them dry. They wished to know what new impositions this second group of royal officials brought with them.

Benches had been set out and the burgesses took those near the rear of the hall, leaving the ones at the front for persons of greater rank. Many of the Norman magnates were absentee landlords and men like Ranulf Peverel, Hugh de Montfort, and Richard FitzGilbert were represented by their subtenants. Peter de Valognes also had

some holdings in the area but they were not under investigation by the commissioners. When the Sheriff of Essex finally came to Maldon, therefore, it would be to investigate the murder of a prominent Norman and not to quibble over property rights in the shire hall.

The major landowners who put in an appearance did so with a

show of defiance, sweeping into the hall with a clutch of manorial officials around them and lowering themselves onto the front benches with muted truculence. During the visit of the first commissioners, the shire hall had echoed with accusation and counteraccusation and the barons were clearly prepared for further acrimony. Gilbert Champeney was one of the few people present untouched by the prevailing mood of suspicion. Although not called before the commissioners, he nevertheless came to the meeting out of interest and tossed amiable greetings to all and sundry as he made his way to a seat. He was accompanied by his son, Miles, a young man who seemed to have inherited all his father’s good qualities while being spared some of his physical shortcomings. Miles Chanpeney was tall, slim, and poised with a quiet handsomeness that was enhanced by a shock of curly fair hair. His tunic and mantle were very much those of a Norman but, like his father, he seemed at ease among the largely Saxon gathering.