Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

The silence also intrigued him. They worked together but they did not speak, communicating instead with nods and smiles and gestures. One of them let out a suppressed giggle from time to time but she was instantly subdued by the warning finger of the stoutest of the nuns, a solid woman with her face almost completely obscured by her wimple. Another feature of the community struck the boy. They liked each other. There was the most extraordinary sense of union between them as if they really were sisters in one happy family. Even the stout nun was loved and cherished in the pervading atmosphere of shared joy. Wistan picked out the prioress as soon as she appeared because the gracious figure inspired such affection and obedience in the others.

Entranced by it all, he watched as the stout nun went back into the priory once more. The chapel bell began to chime and the holy sisters immediately abandoned their work and filed in through the door. One of them lingered for a moment as if unsure whether to stay or to follow, torn between conflicting loyalties and needs. She was a young nun whose grace of movement had already caught his eye and whose sweet smile rarely left her face. Wistan wondered why she was hesitating, then he gasped in dismay as she began to walk straight towards him. He had been seen. The holy sister was heading in his direction with a look of quiet determination on her face, as if she was prepared to grab the intruder for daring to trespass on the enclave.

His first impulse was to run but he saw the danger in that. If he was to be caught, he would far sooner face a nun with Christian benevo-lence than a search party with weapons. Wistan crouched down in his burrow and waited for her to part the bushes and accost him. But discovery did not come. A few yards short of his refuge, the young woman came to a halt, knelt down on the ground, and then lowered herself forward so that she could kiss the earth. He was totally mystified. There was such an aura of respect and devotion about her that he felt completely humbled. Sitting back on her haunches, she looked upwards and began to chant something to herself. She did not remain there for long. The prioress glided out of the building as if knowing exactly where to find the errant member of her little community.

“Sister Tecla!” she called gently.

The nun was too caught up in her ritual to hear. “Sister Tecla!”

A note of command was injected this time and it earned a prompt response. Sister Tecla rose quickly to her feet and flitted across the grass towards the prioress before following her meekly into the building without a word of protest.

Brother Simon worked with the cheerful frenzy of a man who had at last discovered his true mission in life. Everything now depended on him and it was such a unique situation for the unassuming monk to be in that he savoured every moment of it. On the rare occasions when he paused to take a sip of water or to sharpen his quill with a deft knife, he offered a silent prayer of thanks to God for calling on him at last to render a service of such magnitude. Brother Simon was in an ecstasy of true humility. He sat behind the table on which so many succulent dishes had been set out for their delectation. It was now covered in writs, charters, and tenurial contracts, in grants and bequests, in lists of names and inventories of possessions. The gaunt monk was gorging himself with ruinous self-indulgence on a banquet of the finest parchment.

Ralph Delchard was still not satisfied with progress.

“Make him work faster, Hubert,” he urged.

“Calligraphy is a painstaking art, my lord,” said Canon Hubert. “If you hasten the pen, you end up with scribble. Brother Simon is already working much more quickly than he would normally do. Only a steady hand will suggest authenticity.”

“Crack the whip over him at least.”

“He is a holy brother,” said Hubert, “and not a galley slave who is lashed to his oars. You speed up his pace at your peril.” He adjusted his paunch in disapproval. “I will not urge him on. I still have the most serious reservations about this whole enterprise.”

“Why?” said Ralph.

“You are encouraging Brother Simon to act as a forger.” “Perhaps that’s why he is enjoying it so much.”

“He is being led astray from the straight and narrow.” “A small crime is justified by a heinous one.”

“That is unsound theology,” argued Hubert. “And I do not accept that forgery is a small crime. Brother Simon may be selling his soul at that table.”

“No,” said Ralph. “He is saving Miles Champeney.”

Canon Hubert’s opposition was voiced rather than felt. Although he was obliged to register a token objection, he knew that they were taking the only option that presented itself. Hamo FitzCorbucion was stooping to the most disgraceful act of blackmail in order to gain the upper hand over the royal commissioners, and so a slight dip from their high standard of moral probity was perhaps permissible. Although he would never confess it openly, Hubert was entering into the spirit of the deception as willingly as any of them.

“One more is finished,” announced the drooping monk. “Give it to me, Brother Simon.”

“Yes, Canon Hubert. It concerns four hides on Osea.” “Let me see.”

Hubert combed the document for errors of detail and instances of erratic handwriting. None appeared. He dried the ink by shaking sand over it, then laid the paper out on the floor. Brother Simon winced as his beautiful penmanship was subjected to the full weight of Canon Hubert’s dirty sandals. When the latter reclaimed the document from the floor, it was scuffed and discoloured. He threw an explanation at his wounded colleague.

“This charter must look as if it is twenty years old.” “Of course, Canon Hubert.”

“I have added wear and tear to your excellent work.”

“Thank you,” said Simon, brightening at the compliment. “I will continue with renewed zeal.” He reached out for the next document and read through it. Panic seized him. “Oh, no! My hand rebels at this! I cannot write these words!”

“What is the problem?” said Ralph. “The name of this subtenant, my lord.”

“Where?” He looked over his shoulder to read a name which called for a shout of celebration. “It’s Humphrey!”

“My quill would moult if I used it on such vileness!” “Why?” asked Hubert. “What is the fellow’s name?”

Ralph handed him the document. “See for yourself,” he invited.

“There he hangs-Humphrey Aureis testiculi!”

Canon Hubert reddened. “It is a dreadful mistake!” “Perhaps they are silver and not gold,” said Ralph.

“Do not force me to copy those words,” begged Simon. “I will serve

you in any way I can but I will not lend my pen to such sinful usage.” “It is a mistake,” insisted Hubert, flipping through the Latin alternatives in his mind. “Yes, I have it. Change that ‘t’ to an ‘r’ then alter the ‘i’ and what do you have?”

“Humphrey Goldenbollocks!” announced Ralph.

“My lord!” said Brother Simon in scandalised horror. “Humphrey Goldenropes,” corrected Hubert primly. “Ropes!” Ralph spluttered. “Golden-ropes!” “Resticula-a thin rope or cord.”

Ralph guffawed. “Humphrey is even more remarkable than I thought

if he has golden ropes where his testicles ought to be.” He passed another document to the monk. “Forget this one. It belongs to me. You copy the next one instead.”

Brother Simon croaked his gratitude and attacked the less offensive Latin of the next charter. The outraged canon was still vainly trying to cover Humphrey’s shame with the fig leaf of an alternative translation when Gervase Bret came striding into the room to ask why he had been summoned back to Champeney Hall. Ralph took him by the arm and led him off to a chamber where they could talk in private.