Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“So that he could brush the subject aside,” reasoned Gervase. “Put yourself in his position, Ralph. Would you have attended a meeting such as this when a brother had recently been killed?”

“I’d have sent my steward to represent me.” “Then why did Jocelyn turn up?”

“To show off his claws and threaten to scratch.”

“To prove himself,” said Gervase. “Guy’s death is not the source of grief it would be for any other brother. It is just a convenient excuse that can be used against us.”

“I take your point. There is matter here.” “We must probe it to the full.”

“We will,” said Ralph with a hollow laugh. “When they have the funeral for Guy FitzCorbucion, I will wait until the gravedigger has done his office and then borrow his spade.”

“His spade?”

“To dig up all the other bodies that Hamo has buried.” “There will be enough of them, Ralph, I promise you.”

They made to leave and Gervase glanced at the document that the town reeve had given him. It was the list of all the people who had attended the meeting in the shire hall and he ran his eye quickly over it. Disappointment made him purse his lips and shake his head sadly.

“What is the matter?” said Ralph. “He did not come to the meeting.” “Who?”

“Tovild the Haunted.”

“You are obsessed with this man, Gervase.”

“A passing interest, no more.” He handed the list to his companion. “Your friend, however, was here.”

“My friend?”

“Humphrey Aureis testiculi.” “You jest with me.”

“He was here, I tell you. Look at those names.”

Ralph did so and one of them jumped right out at him. “Humphrey! He exists! He was in this very room!”

“And you did not even notice him,” chided Gervase.

“I was too busy,” said Ralph, almost distraught. “He was here in front of my nose and I missed him. I will not rest until I know.” He executed a dance of delight. “By all, this is wonderful! Goldenbollocks is real!”

“He is-and they are.”

“You saw him?”

“He was not difficult to pick out.” “In the flesh?”

“Humphrey sat in the middle of the hall,” said Gervase with mock

seriousness, enjoying a chance to tease Ralph for a change. “I singled him out at once.”

“But the place was full of people. How ever did you recognise my

Humphrey in that crowd?” “Easily.”

“By intuition?”

“No,” said Gervase. “Latin translation.”

Ralph Delchard shook with mirth for fifteen minutes.

Baldon priory was a recent foundation, which had blended so quickly and so easily into its surroundings that it seemed always to have been there. The regular tolling of its little bell was almost as familiar a sound in the town as the incessant cries of its gulls and it was taken for granted in the same way. Some nunneries were simply a part of double-houses and Mass was celebrated by a resident staff of chaplains under the supervision of a chapter priest, but the priory was essentially a female enclave. There were those who maintained that women should be spared the full rigours of the Benedictine Order with its regime of self-denial and its emphasis on the importance of manual labour. Prioress Mindred did not share this view and made few concessions to soften the lives of her nuns. Eight times a day, they entered the miniscule chapel to sing the sequence of offices and each one of them accepted Chapter Forty-eight of the Rule with its unequivocal stipulation-“Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Therefore, the brothers should work with their hands at fixed times of day, and at other fixed times should read sacred works.” What was prescribed for the brothers, the prioress believed, should also apply to holy sisters. They, too, had souls.

“Has all been well in my absence, Sister Gunnhild?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“Have you met with any problems?”

“None.”

“No misbehaviour to report?”

“Not while I have been in charge here.”

Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with the stout Sister Gunnhild, who was far and away the most senior and experienced nun at the convent. Gunnhild was a Dane and old enough to remember when a Danish King, Cnut, sat on the throne of England and ruled the country with a mixture of harsh statute and Christian precept. She had been a bride of Christ infinitely longer than Mindred herself and was far more qualified for the office of prioress, but she did not dwell on that thought and instead bent herself readily to the latter’s command. Lady Mindred was the widow of a Saxon nobleman, who had left her with substantial wealth and a deep emptiness at the centre of her existence. Since it was her money that founded the priory, she was the natural choice as its first mother and she was delighted when the Abbess of Barking assigned Sister Gunnhild to Maldon to assist her. Mindred’s high ideals and Gunnhild’s practical experience were a potent combination.

“We are pleased to have you back, Reverend Mother.” “Thank you, Sister Gunnhild.”

“How did you find them all at Barking?”

“In good spirits. The abbess sends you her love.”

“I hope you conveyed mine to her,” said Gunnhild.

“To her and to the holy sisters. You are greatly missed there.” The prioress smiled. “But what they have lost, we have certainly gained. You are a foundation stone, Gunnhild.”

“I serve God in the way that He chooses for me.” “You are an example to us all.”

“So are you, Reverend Mother.”

Gunnhild’s face was still so hidden by her wimple that only her nose and eyes could be properly seen. Some of those who had come to the priory were still too bound up in the vanities of the world and they had to be taught to neglect their beauty, conceal their hair, and subdue any bodily charms behind the black anonymity of their habits. The severity of a Gunnhild was the desired target to which all the sisters-with greater or lesser degrees of success-endeavoured to aim, but not all of them were fired with the same devotion as the Danish nun. Some had resorted to the cloister because they could find no earthly bridegroom or because they needed a refuge from the continuing turmoil of Norman occupation. Prioress Mindred-herself a late convert to the notion of living in a religious house-was determined to allow no laxity in her tiny community and to turn her nuns into truly spiritual beings, whatever their original motives for taking the veil. In this work, as in every other aspect of the daily round at the priory, Sister Gunnhild’s help was absolutely crucial.

A scrunching noise took their attention to the window, which looked out on the garden. They caught a glimpse of bodies bent in toil with rake and hoe. Noblewomen who had never before done manual work of any kind were going about their allotted tasks in the warm sunshine. There was the faintest whisper of complacence in Mindred’s voice.

“We are moving forward,” she said. “We had to employ carpenters to build this priory and some masons to erect the chapel but our holy sisters have created the garden out of a wilderness. Our kitchens already cook vegetables that we have grown ourselves and our own fruit trees will yield their harvest in a year or two.” She glanced across at the embroidered portrait, which hung on the wall. “St. Benedict was right. Idleness is truly the enemy of the soul.”

“Work has its own dignity,” said Gunnhild humbly, “and women may learn its value in the same way as men.”

“Work and study. It is the perfect life for all.” She indicated the books that lay on the table beside her. “We brought these gifts back from Abbess Aelfgiva. They will enrich our minds and provide spiritual nourishment.”