Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“That is for you to find out, Master Bret.”

“Is there nobody in the town to stand up to him?” “It appears not.”

“Everyone seems to loathe the FitzCorbucions. They have annexed land on every side of them and behaved as if they are the royal family of Maldon.” Gervase scrutinised the impassive face in front of him. “Is that why so few people mourn the death of Guy FitzCorbucion?”

Miles was enigmatic. “He was not popular.”

“I gathered that,” said Gervase. “In fact, when I read through all those names of dispossessed Saxons, I had the feeling that I was calling out a list of suspects.”

“Suspects?”

“For his murder. They all had a motive to kill him.” “Hamo is the lord of the manor and not Guy.”

“Of course,” said Gervase, “but his elder son seems to have excited even greater hostility for some reason. We have not heard a good word said about Guy FitzCorbucion since we arrived in Maldon.” He

cast his line into the water again. “Can you say anything in the young man’s favour?”

Miles was emphatic. “No,” he said.

“That conforms to the general feeling.” “I had no time for Guy.”

“Nor for Jocelyn, I noticed.” “Jocelyn?”

“You and he were highly displeased to see each other.” “I think you are mistaken about that.”

“Your manner could hardly be called friendly,” said Gervase. “In fact, it was downright-”

“Please excuse me,” said Miles, rising to his feet to terminate the exchange. “It is late.”

“Is there some particular animosity between you?” “I am tired. I need my rest.”

Miles Champeney spoke with politeness but there was no mistak-ing the glint of anger in his eyes. Gervase was deeply annoyed with himself. He had been too heavy-handed in his questioning and frightened the young man away. When Miles took his leave of the company and headed for the door, he shot a hurt look back at his interrogator. The father might be thrilled to have the royal commissioners under his roof but the son did not extend the same welcome. Gervase had definitely alienated him.

The departure of one person was the cue for others to struggle up from the table and find their way to their chambers. Gilbert Champeney, attentive host and indefatigable gossip, was left with only Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, and Canon Hubert for company. Emboldened by the wine, the prelate decided that this was the moment to take Ralph to task for his conduct of that afternoon’s meeting.

“We shall proceed more briskly tomorrow,” he said. “Why?” joked Ralph. “Do you intend to stay away?”

“No, my lord. Since you did not control matters to my satisfaction, I intend to take a more active part. Watch me and you will learn what advocacy is.”

“Gluttony, you mean.” Ralph appealed to the others with outstretched hands. “Have you ever seen so much food eaten so fast? Ten quails went into that round belly.”

“Four,” said Hubert.

“Four, ten, twenty-what does it matter?” said Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “Food is one of the joys of life. When you sit at my table, take as much as you wish.”

“Thank you, noble sir,” said Hubert before swinging his purple cheeks around to face Ralph once more. “You are only trying to deflect me, my lord. My argument remains valid. I have the greater experience

in legal matters so I should lead the way. I have no peer in the ecclesiastical courts.”

“We are not in the ecclesiastical courts,” reminded Gervase. “There is a world of difference between property disputes and the intricacies of canon law.”

“I can master any charter of land,” boasted Hubert.

Ralph grinned. “How many quails can you eat per acre?” “Be serious!”

“I am in too merry a mood.”

“We are here on urgent business.”

“Granted,” said Ralph, “but we must discharge our duties in the right place and at the right time. We must not bore our host with our petty squabbles.” He emptied the wine in his cup. “If you want an argument to round off a splendid evening, then I have just the subject for you.”

“What is it?” said Gilbert eagerly. “I adore argument.” “Marriage.”

“Marriage?” echoed the canon. “Clerical marriage.”

“It is an abomination!”

“Yet there are married priests,” said Gervase. “A vice peculiar to the Saxons.”

“That’s why I find them so endearing,” said Gilbert.

“Norman clerks have married,” resumed Ralph, determined to get his colleague on the run. “Many have had mistresses. Some have had wives and mistresses.”

“Archbishop Lanfranc has expressly forbidden it!”

“I know, Hubert. But the good archbishop cannot stand by the bed of every priest and monk in England to make sure that they get into it alone.”

Gilbert sniggered. “Were you never tempted by female flesh, Canon Hubert?”

“Never, sir!”

“What about male flesh?” said Ralph, chuckling at the prelate’s apoplectic reaction.

“A pity!” he said. “You could otherwise have married Gilbert’s wondrous cook and dined on grilled quail for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll not hear any more of this!” yelled Hubert.

“But you have not given us your view on marriage.”

“I embody it!”

He manoeuvered his bulk into a vertical position and then lurched

off towards the chamber, which he shared with Brother Simon. There, at least he could be assured of the total respect to which he felt his position entitled him and spend a chaste night in the company of an ascetic man who viewed the whole concept of marriage as anathema.

Gervase was conscious of the testing day ahead of them. “Perhaps it is time we all retired,” he suggested.

“I could sleep for a week,” said Ralph, succumbing to fatigue. “That was a magnificent feast, Gilbert. If Hubert does not marry your cook, then I may!”

“He is already married.”

“Do not tell that to our testy canon.”

They got up from the table and walked towards the door in the flickering candlelight. Champeney Hall was unlike any Norman dwelling they had been in before and its atmosphere was curiously inviting. Ralph Delchard was drowsy but he was determined to ask one last question before he collapsed into his bed. He put an arm around Gilbert’s shoulders.

“You must know every man in Maldon, dear friend.”

“In person.”

“So who is this Humphrey?”

“Humphrey?”

“Aureis testiculi,” said Gervase.

“Goldenbollocks,” translated Ralph.

“Ah, that Humphrey!” Gilbert went off into a paroxysm of giggling, then he waved Ralph away. “I am sorry, sir. I cannot tell you how he acquired the nickname. It is a secret.”

“But it torments me,” said Ralph. “How do you think Humphrey feels?”

Their host giggled afresh and leaned against a beam for support.

Ralph pressed him for an explanation but in vain. On this topic, if on no other, Gilbert was discreet. Ralph gave up. After thanking him once more for his hospitality, he rolled off towards his chamber. Gervase was about to go with him when he was detained by a hand. Gilbert Champeney was not giggling now. His face was dark and his manner suddenly quite serious. Gervase thought that he had been caught up in the jollity of the occasion but his host had missed nothing of what went on around his table.

“You must forgive my son,” he said. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“You touched a raw spot, I fear.”

“I merely asked him about Jocelyn FitzCorbucion,” said Gervase. “They obviously did not like each other.”

“With good cause.” Gilbert sighed. “A sad business.”

“Why?”

“One of the perils of fatherhood.” “Perils?”