Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

Wistan’s second problem was more serious. A fugitive could not himself be in pursuit of a prey. His lust for vengeance boiled inside him but it would not be satisfied as long as he stayed on Northey Island. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead but Hamo was the head of the family and Wistan had to execute him for his own father’s sake. Jocelyn, too, deserved to die because he bore a reviled name and because he stood by and watched Algar being humiliated by Guy. In his swirling rage, Wistan even wanted to destroy Matilda as well so that the entire FitzCorbucion family were obliterated from Blackwater Hall.

But how was he to do it? He could hardly expect Hamo or Jocelyn to come obligingly onto the island with no soldiers at their back. When they hunted him, they would do so in force and Wistan would be

lucky to see-let alone to get within striking distance-of the two men whose deaths he had sworn to bring about. If the ravens of Blackwater would not come on their own to him, then he would have to go to them. He had no idea how he could possibly do this without taking unnecessary risks, but a vague plan began to form and it so filled his mind with its daring that it made him unwary. He strolled towards the margin of the water as unguardedly as if he owned the whole island.

The noise of the spear awoke him at once and he flung himself on

his stomach in the reeds. Had he been seen? The soldier was clearly heading in his direction. Wistan cursed himself for being so careless. Two days of freedom had been thrown away in a second’s inat-tention. His knife jumped into his hand but it would be no match for the spear that had been hurled with force into a fallen log. The sound still reverberated in his ears. That same spear could impale him to the ground if he lay there motionless. He had to escape somehow. Pulling his knees forward, he raised himself slowly and peered over the swaying tops of the reeds. It was difficult to see anything in the twilight but he knew the soldier was still there. He could hear the clash of a sword on a shield and a guttural battle cry. Was the man summoning the rest of the hunting party? When would they unleash their attack?

Wistan was about to take to his heels when he noticed something that stilled his fears. The man was old. He moved slowly. What he put his sword into his belt and tried to pull the spear from the log, he could not at first dislodge the weapon. It took him a couple of minutes of tugging and twisting before the head of the spear consented to part company with the timber and, in doing so, it threw him right off balance. Wistan saw something else. The soldier was not, as he had imagined, in the mailed hauberk of a Norman knight. He wore a long woollen coat, belted at the waist and reaching to mid-thigh. His legs were encased in tight trousers and his shoes were made of leather. The Norman helm that Wistan thought he had seen was, in fact, a conical helmet of iron with a thick nasal. Spear and sword were heavy implements of war and the long oval shield was embossed with a simple design at its centre. Wistan was utterly baffled.

The old man charged on unsteady limbs towards an invisible enemy

and jabbed at the air with his spear. His war cry had been replaced by some kind of chant but the boy was too far away to pick out any of the words. Wistan’s main concern was that he had not given himself away. He was safe. This strange creature who fought a nonexistent battle in the fading light on Northey Island had not come in search of him, and he was certainly not a member of the FitzCorbucion retinue. He was not a Norman knight at all. What Wistan was looking at was a Viking warrior in full battle dress.

Tovild the Haunted was on the rampage once again.

The cook excelled himself. The meal that was served at Champeney Hall that evening was so rich and appetising that even Brother Simon could not refuse it all. Meat, fish, and poultry of the highest quality were placed before the visitors and the aroma alone was enough to make Canon Hubert’s mouth water with anticipation. Among a selec-tion of fine dishes, he found the grilled quail most to his liking and he munched his way through four of them between frequent sips of wine. For those who preferred it, ale that had been spiced and honeyed was also available. A whole array of pies and puddings was brought in to complete what had been a virtual banquet.

Gilbert Champeney had even arranged for minstrels to play at the far end of the hall so that the frugal nibbling of Brother Simon was accompanied by the strains of an Irish ham and the noisy gormandising of Canon Hubert was sweetened by the plangent harmonies of the lyre. At his host’s elbow, Ralph Delchard ate heartily and drank with enthusiasm while listening to Gilbert’s amiable chatter. Gervase Bret dined with his usual moderation and took the opportunity, when the repast was almost over, to converse with Miles Champeney. The young man was pleasant and well mannered but unaccountably reserved, and Gervase was not sure if this was due to a natural shyness or if his companion was seeking to hide something. Miles was patently not at ease. From time to time, he seemed to wince involuntarily as he overheard some snatch of his father’s banter. Gilbert Champeney clearly had the power to make his son squirm with embarrassment.

“We must congratulate your cook,” said Gervase.

“Father brought him over from Normandy,” said Miles. “He loves all things Saxon but he found their diet a little too plain and coarse.”

“Do you share his admiration for the Saxons?” “Not entirely.”

Gervase waited for an explanation that did not come. The young man sipped his wine watchfully and waited for the next question. It was evident that he himself would not initiate any conversation.

“Essex is a strange county,” observed Gervase. “Well over four hundred settlements were recorded by our predecessors yet you only have two of any size-Maldon and Colchester. Why is that, do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does it say something about the spirit of the people who live in this shire? Do they value their independence? Do they prefer life in a smaller community? Or is it to do with the geography of this part of the country?” He paused long enough to see that no answer was forthcoming and then he pressed on. “King William has not been kind to Essex.”

“Kind?”

Gervase smiled. “Perhaps one should not look for kindness in a conqueror,” he remarked, “but other shires have been treated with far less severity. Your father may love the Saxons but the King seems to have chosen Essex in order to show his hatred of them. Its history is one long tale of confiscation and loss. Did you know that less than one man in ten can now call himself free? Half the population of this county are mere bordars.”

Miles was noncommittal. “It is not my doing.” “One is bound to be sympathetic, surely?”

But Gervase could still not draw him out. Whatever his views on the subject, Miles Champeney was not prepared to share them with him. The father could not be stopped from burbling about the cumula-tive indignities suffered by the Saxon community in Essex, but the son had nothing whatsoever to add. Gervase sensed deliberate evasion and so he switched to a topic he was fairly certain would elicit some kind of comment from the taciturn young man.

“We saw you in the shire hall this afternoon.” “Did you?”

“Why did you attend?”

“Father asked me to accompany him.” “What did you think of the proceedings?” “They held my attention,” said Miles levelly.

Gervase began to fish. “As you heard, Blackwater Hall is one of our main concerns. Hamo FitzCorbucion has increased his holdings quite appreciably in the past twenty years and not always by legal means.” He looked artlessly at the other man. “How did he manage to get away with it?”