Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“Until he saw this.”

“Oslac still seems an unlikely assassin to me,” said Ralph. “But you are right about one thing. Guy would only go to that place to meet someone he knew and trusted.”

“That rules out Wistan and Miles completely.”

“Who does it leave?”

They sifted through all the names once more but they could not agree on any one of them as the perpetrator of the crime. Gervase wondered if it was time to widen their search.

“Guy FitzCorbucion is killed,” he said. “Cui bono?”

“Cui bono?”

“Who stands to gain by his murder?”

“Every man, woman, and child in the town.”

“But who will gain most?” asked Gervase. “Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong place, Ralph. We have only considered enemies of the family instead of the family itself. That would certainly give us motive. And there would be ample opportunity.”

“The family itself?”

“Think back to our first afternoon at the shire hall,” he said, moving around the chamber as he developed his argument and becoming more and more persuaded by it. “He went out of his way to challenge us. Remember how cool and assured he was? Did you see how eager he was to assert his authority? Did you notice how important it was for him to put us in our place?”

“Jocelyn FitzCorbucion?”

“Who else?”

“But what did he stand to gain?”

“Power.”

“The younger son,” mused Ralph. “Weary of staying in his elder brother’s shadow. More intelligent and gifted than Guy but forced into the background.”

“Biding his time. Waiting to fulfill his own ambitions.” “He was certainly a self-possessed young man.”

“Indeed, he was,” said Gervase. “Consider the position he was in that afternoon. His father was away, his brother was lying on a slab at the church, his sister was agitating about Miles Champeney, and there was still bad feeling among his slaves as a result of Algar’s death. Jocelyn had much to do. There was a search party to organise and a huge demesne to administer, yet he rolls up at the shire hall as if he did not have a care in the world. What does all that tell you, Ralph?”

“Put his name at the top of our list.” “Cui bono?”

“Joceyln FitzCorbucion.”

Jocelyn FitzCorbucion fretted quietly in a corner while his father guzzled his way through his food. He felt cheated of his fair reward. Thanks to him, Matilda was imprisoned in her chamber at the top of the house while Miles Champeney was languishing in the dungeon below it. He had discovered the planned elopement and been instrumental in stopping it. The political marriage, which Hamo had arranged in Coutances for his daughter, could now take place without the hindrance of a rival. But something else rankled even more. Jocelyn had taken considerable pains to prepare a solid defence against the accusations of the royal commissioners. Blackwater Hall would be saved by his mastery of detail and brilliance as an advocate. Hamo had swept him aside uncaringly and chosen a much quicker and cruder method of defying his enemies. It was galling. Jocelyn was deprived of his chance to prove himself in legal debate and robbed of the glory, which he was convinced he would have won.

Hamo swilled down his food with some wine and belched.

“He will not come,” decided Jocelyn. “Gilbert has to come. Give him time.” “He would never steal from his guests.”

“He is not stealing,” said Hamo, sitting back in his chair. “He is merely borrowing a few documents.”

“They will be missed. He will be caught.”

“Gilbert Champeney will do exactly what I told him.” “But suppose that he does not, Father?”

“He has no choice.”

“Suppose he does not?” repeated Jocelyn, crossing to face him. “You will need my skills then. You will have to rely on my advocacy in front of the commissioners. I have prepared a stout defence with walls as thick as those of Colchester Castle. We would be invincible in battle.”

Hamo was unimpressed. “When Gilbert follows his orders, there will be no battle. Why waste all that time in a draughty shire hall when we can send these idiots packing in less than an hour?” His fingers ran over the fruit bowl and settled on an apple. “You still have much to learn, Jocelyn,”

“Nobody has studied harder.”

“Study is only part of it. Instinct is the key.” “I have that, too.”

“Not like me. Not like your brother, Guy. He had real instinct. Guy knew how to find out a man’s weakness.”

“It was usually his wife!” said Jocelyn ruefully. “Don’t you dare speak ill of Guy!”

“No, Father.”

“He was twice the son you are!” yelled Hamo. He stifled a rejoinder. “Yes, Father,” he said.

Hamo bit into the apple and chewed it noisily. It was early evening

and the sun was still putting a bright sheen on Blackwater Hall, but its rays had failed to penetrate the house itself and to thaw out the cold fury of its master.

“Where did they search today?” he snarled.

“To the north, Father. As you directed.”

“That boy has to be here!”

“After all this time? I doubt it.”

“Where else could he go?” demanded Hamo. “He has no money and no horse. Everyone is out looking for him. I’ve put such a high price on his young head that even his father would have turned him in for the reward.”

“Perhaps he is already dead. Drowned in the estuary.” “He is still alive. I feel it.”

“Then they will find him eventually.”

“Tomorrow, I will ride out with them myself.”

“But we are summoned to the shire hall, Father.”

“That business will not detain us long,” said Hamo through a mouthful of apple. “I’ll go along to spit in the eye of the commissioners then join the hunt for my son’s killer. They’ll have no case against me.”

“Only if Gilbert Champeney does your bidding.” “He will, Jocelyn. Mark my words.”

“So many things could go wrong,” warned his son. “My way is slower but more secure. Let me explain how I would go about it, Father. I have taken the measure of these royal commissioners so I know precisely what to expect from them. First of all …”

Hamo ignored him. He had heard something else and it got him up from the table and across to the window. He let out a throaty chuckle and tossed his apple core to Jocelyn.

“I told you that Gilbert would come.”

He led the way to the main door and went down the stone steps and into the courtyard with an irritated Jocelyn a few paces behind him. Gilbert Champeney had brought two of his knights as an escort and they waited near the gate. Fulk the Steward was giving him a welcome and holding the bridle of his horse while the visitor dismounted. Gilbert was in a feisty mood. Jocelyn recognised the satchel that he was carrying. It belonged to one of the commissioners and had lain on the table at the shire hall when Jocelyn had gone there to confront them.

“I knew that you would see sense!” said Hamo. “Where’s my son?”

“He is quite safe, Gilbert. I give you my word.”

“Where is he? I wish to see him.” “You are in no position to haggle.”

“Neither are you, Hamo.” He put a foot in the stirrup once more. “I will return these documents to their owners.”

“Wait!”

Gilbert stayed ready to mount. “Well?”

“Show me what you have and you will see your son.”

“Where is he?”

“He can be brought here very quickly.”

“Then send for him.” Gilbert was firm. “Send for him now, Hamo, or I ride out of this accursed place.”

Hamo regarded him with a mixture of contempt and admiration, then he gave a signal and Fulk went towards the ground floor of the house. Gilbert consented to let go of the saddle and remove his foot from the stirrup. Hamo held out a hand and his visitor reluctantly opened the satchel and took out a sheaf of documents. Jocelyn came forward to peer at them. Gilbert would not surrender anything until he had been assured of his son’s safety but he did let the two of them see the first parchment. It was an abstract of all the charges that were to be levelled against Blackwater Hall on the following morning. They would be forewarned about the whole prosecution case. Jocelyn read through it carefully and nodded to his father. The document was authentic.