Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

But Algar would not submit to an ordeal that he knew would kill him. Guy FitzCorbucion was a big man with a strong arm. The whipping would be merciless. Algar was not going to be flayed in front of his son. He wanted to leave Wistan with a sense of pride in his father and there was only one way to do that. Therefore, as the two soldiers tried to pull him away, he summoned all of his remaining energy and struck. Breaking free of their hold, he flung himself at Guy and got angry hands around his throat. It was a bold bid but it was doomed to failure.

The young Norman reacted with speed. Incensed that the slave should dare to attack him, he beat him to the ground with pummelling fists, then reached down to lift him bodily into the air. Algar was held briefly above Guy’s head and was then dashed into a trough with ruthless violence. There was a loud crack as the slave’s head hit the thick stone and his whole frame sagged lifelessly into the brackish water. Wistan ran forward to help his father but he was far too late. In trying to escape one death, Algar had met another, but at least he had done so with a degree of honour.

Wistan lifted his father gently from the trough and embraced the sodden body. Tears ran down the boy’s face but rebellion was burning inside him. Algar’s death had to be avenged and Wistan made a silent vow to his murdered father. However, when he looked up to direct his venom at the culprit, Guy FitzCorbucion was no longer there. Laughing aloud, he was sweeping towards the house with his dark mantle flapping behind him like a pair of wings.

It was late when they reached London and the sonorous bell of St. Martin’s-le-Grand was signalling the curfew as their horses clattered over the wooden bridge, which spanned the broad back of the Thames. A long day in the saddle proved exhausting and all that most of them sought was simple refreshment and a comfortable bed. Early the next morning London awakened them with its urgency and clamour. It was a large city with almost fifteen thousand inhabitants, all of whom, judging by the uproar, seemed to have converged on the various street markets to buy, sell, haggle, or solely to contribute to the general din. Visitors used to the quieter life of Winchester were at first startled by the boisterous activity. After a hasty breakfast, they went out to take

stock of this deafening community.

Ralph Delchard’s attention went straight to the Tower.

“Look at it!” he said with an appreciative chuckle. “A perfect monument to our victory over the English.”

“It’s a sign of fear,” said Gervase Bret. “Normans fear nobody!”

“Then why build such a fortress, Ralph, unless it be to have a place in which to hide in safety?”

“We have no need to hide, Gervase. All this is ours. We own London. The Tower was built to remind its citizens of that fact. Besides,” he added, waving a dismissive hand at the dwellings all around them, “would you have King William live in one of these wood and wattle huts that will blow over in the first strong wind? A conqueror’s head cannot lie beneath a roof of musty thatch. He demands a castle.”

“In order to feel secure.”

“In order to proclaim his position.” “And fend off apprehension.”

“No!”

Ralph Delchard did not like to be contradicted at any time, even by such a close and valued friend as Gervase Bret. The former was a Norman lord, the latter a Chancery clerk; they worked supremely well together in the royal service but there were occasions when

their differences showed through. Ralph tried to win the argument by pulling rank.

“I fought at Hastings,” he said.

“So did my father,” countered Gervase.

“Indeed, he did-God rest his soul! A mere Breton, he may have been but he chose the right leader to serve. Your father died in battle, Gervase. I went on with Duke William to complete the Conquest of this troublesome land.”

A deep sigh came from the younger man. “Yes, Ralph. You have

recounted the story often.”

“Not often enough, it appears,” said the other, “for you have forgotten some important details. We marched north from Sussex towards London and Duke William, as he then was, asked to be admitted, but the city was full of stubborn Saxons and the portreeve refused to open the gates to us. That made William angry. So he led us in a great circle around London, destroying and burning everything in our path. The city found itself at the centre of a ring of fire and devastation.”

“It will never forget that-or forgive it.”

“When William came back to London, they let him in.”

“Only in return for a charter that guaranteed their ancient liber-ties. His welcome was conditional.”

“I was here, Gervase,” said Ralph, grinning proudly at the memory. “We entered the city like conquerors.”

“Then built fortresses to skulk in.” “No!”

“We spent the night in one of them,” observed Gervase with a glance over his shoulder. “Castle Baynard. Close by it stands Montfichet Tower. Even they and this stronghold in front of us are not enough to calm the Conqueror’s nerves for he built another castle downstream at Windsor.”

“Be careful, lad. Do not mock the King.” “Then do not overpraise him.”

“We are his servants, Gervase, and that demands loyalty. You sometimes forget which side you are on.” “I am on the side of justice.”

“Norman justice,” said Ralph. “Rights of conquest.”

There were seven of them. Accompanied by five men-at-arms, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were sitting astride their horses in Cheapside, the main thoroughfare and marketplace of the city. People thronged and gave them the usual collection of resentful looks and watchful stares. Ralph was a big, powerful man with a mailed jerkin beneath his mantle and a sword and dagger at his belt. The knights, all part of his personal retinue, wore the helms and hauberks, which were now such familiar sights all over England. Gervase was of medium height and slighter build than his companions. The studious air and

the sober attire of a clerk concealed a wiry body, which was well able to take care of itself in physical combat. Ralph and the others were essentially Normans; however, Gervase came of mixed Breton and Saxon parentage. He saw things through somewhat wider eyes.

The Tower of London dominated the city. It was a three-storeyed

palace-keep with dressings of Caen stone and it rose to a height of ninety feet. At its base, the walls were fifteen feet thick although they narrowed slightly as they climbed up towards the turrets. Work still continued on the interior of the building but its chill message was already delivered by the daunting exterior. The Normans were there to stay. In the most uncompromising way, the Tower announced the strength of the invaders and the irreversibility of their daring conquest. Ralph Delchard thought it made the surrounding Saxon and Viking architecture look rickety and insubstantial. In his heart, Gervase Bret would always share the feelings of the underdogs.

Ralph chuckled and clapped his friend on the back. “Come, Gervase,” he said. “Let me show you the sights.” “I have been to London before, Ralph.”

“Not to this part, I warrant.”

He threw the remark to his men, who guffawed at the private joke. They knew where they were going and what they expected to find there. Ralph’s knees nudged his horse forward and he cut a path through the crowd for the little cavalcade. They went past tables loaded with fruit, baskets filled with vegetables, stalls festooned with animal skins, and cages alive with squawking poultry. Pungent smells blended into a universal stench that assaulted the nostrils. The cacophony was unrelenting. Ralph struck off to the left and took them through a maze of streets and alleys whose names made no attempt to disguise the nature of the business that was transacted there. Gropecuntelane brought a blush to Gervase’s cheeks and a chortle of approval from those who could translate the blunt Anglo-Saxon into its vulgar equivalent in Norman-French.