Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“Stop talking in riddles. Give me a name!”

“We must find that for ourselves,” said Gervase, “but at least we know where to search now. Among the magpies.”

Even a sanctuary had disadvantages. Wistan soon realised that he had been too hasty to congratulate himself on choosing his new refuge. It guaranteed him safety but only at a price. To begin, he had to stay virtually immobile behind the bushes when the nuns appeared. This was quite often because they used the garden, not only as a place to grow fruit and vegetables, but as their cloister garth. This introduced an unforeseen problem for the boy. The wants of nature eventually had to be satisfied and Wistan suffered the most acute embarrassment when forced to relieve himself-albeit out of sight- in the company of holy sisters. It seemed like an act of desecration and he had the same sensation of guilt that had afflicted him when he stole the sword from Oslac the Priest. Religious people unsettled him. Their goodness was quite beyond his comprehension.

Boredom also crept up on him. Things that had intrigued him were dulled by constant repetition. The nuns led a strange and apparently contented life but it seemed so barren to him. Why did they not speak to each other? Why did one sit on a bench in meditation while another walked around the perimeter of the garden with her head in a book? Who was the stout nun and why was her face hidden? Who was the graceful sister who had crouched on the ground near him and kissed the earth? Only one of the holy sisters had any spirit about her, but her sudden giggles were immediately suppressed by the stout woman whenever they broke out. Wistan became restive. He found the passivity of the nuns weighing down on him. Northey Island had been a far more dangerous place to hide but it had also been more varied and interesting. There was an excitement in the chase even if he had been the quarry. Maldon Priory was sapping his vitality and taking the edge off his vengeful urge.

As evening shaded slowly towards night, he found himself wishing that he had selected another hiding place. Wistan had entered a forbidden realm, bizarre and stimulating at first, but ultimately a handicap. Holiness distracted him. It made him think twice about what he planned to do and question his right to do it. He needed to get away.

Light failed by degrees until the whole garden was dappled with shadow. Wistan was not afraid. Darkness was becoming his natural element now, the only time when he had any freedom of movement. Something else kept fear at bay. He had the sword.

The implement, which he had stolen from the home of Oslac the Priest, gave him a sense of power and importance. A sword was the most prized weapon of Saxon warriors of old and few men below the rank of thegn had possessed one. The spear was a far more common weapon. Swords reflected status. This one had a broad, two-edged blade that had grown rather blunt but he could sharpen it on a stone when time served. There was a shallow groove down the centre of both sides of the blade to lighten the dead weight of the iron but it was still heavy. The hilt had a grip of wood, bound in leather, and a three-lobed pommel to counterbalance the weight of the blade. The long guard curved downwards. The scabbard consisted of two thin laths of wood covered in leather and protected at the mouth and tip by a metal strip. The inside of the scabbard was lined with fleece.

Wistan had grabbed the sword and carried it away from the house. Now that it was time to leave, he decided to wear it properly. A thegn would have slung the scabbard on his left hip from a baldric over the right shoulder or on a waist belt. All that Wistan had was a piece of rope knotted around his midriff but the sword could just as easily and as proudly be worn on that. He stood up and tied the scabbard in place before pulling out the sword. It seemed to fit his hand and his purpose completely. Its balance was perfect. Wistan was no longer a runaway slave trying to defend himself with a crude knife. He was a Saxon thegn with a fine sword in his hand and a noble heritage behind him. For a brief moment, the boy was at one with Tovild the Haunted.

A door opened in the priory and he became a startled animal, dropping to his knees and peering with anxiety through the leaves. A figure was coming towards him across the grass and the graceful movement told him that it was Sister Tecla, but she did not reach his corner of the garden this time. The stout nun came bustling out after her and took her gently by the arm. There was a slight alterca-tion as Sister Tecla pointed in the direction she had wanted to go but the older woman was firm. Tecla’s shoulders drooped in resignation. The other nun kissed her tenderly on both cheeks then led her back into the building by the hand.

Wistan was puzzled but glad to be left alone again. He waited another five minutes to make sure that the holy sisters had retired for the night, then he moved across to the wall and pulled himself to the top of it. There was nobody in sight. He was over it in a flash and running with a long stride up the hill. Maldon was largely in darkness now with only the occasional flickering light showing through a window or under a door. He met nobody as he hurried along High Street with his left hand holding up the scabbard so that it did not swing against his legs. After being hemmed in for so long at the priory, it was a joy to be free again and on the move.

He needed to recapture the full sense of anger that impelled him and there was only one place to do that. Therefore, when he reached the Church of All Souls’, he paused to make sure nobody was around, then went through the little wooden gate and into the churchyard. Eerie and still, it was shrouded in gloom but the sword was his comfort. He drew it out and held it in front of him as he picked his way among the graves. Algar had been buried in sloping earth in a mean corner of the churchyard. Guy FitzCorbucion, by contrast, had been given a prime position and his last resting place would be marked in time by some monument. Wistan went first to the spot where his father lay and he offered a mumbled promise of revenge. He remembered the ague-ridden old man who had no strength to defend himself properly against the cruelty of his young master. The hatred began to bubble inside him again. Wistan also recalled the warrior after whom he had been named. That hero had taken his toll of a much stronger foe before he fell with honour. The boy would now do the same. With rancour in his heart and the sword in his hand, he felt ready for any trial that lay ahead.

After paying homage to Algar, he moved away from one grave in order to attack another and hack at the mound of earth that covered his father’s killer. But there was someone on guard. He sensed the movement before he saw anything and it made him check his stride and approach with more caution. Clouds hid the moon and the place was in almost total darkness but somebody was definitely there at the graveside. Wistan became possessed of the idea that it might be Hamo FitzCorbucion, keeping a lonely vigil over his dead son, kneeling beside him, unarmed and vulnerable. The boy wasted no sympathy on him. Raising his weapon, he ran the last few yards to the grave and lashed out viciously with the sword, only to be forced back in alarm as a whole flock of ravens took wing in front of him, flying into his face with screeches of outrage before perching on the church itself to hiss their curses down at him. The grave had its own guardians.

Wistan fled at once and he did not stop running until he was clear of the town and on the Blackwater demense. He slowed down to catch his breath and exercised more caution as he got closer to his destination. The hall came out of the darkness to stop him like a mountain that had been dropped in his path. Like Miles Champeney, he knew better than to enter by the courtyard. The wall at the rear of the building was high but he scaled it with moderate ease and dropped down onto the soft ground beyond. He was now at the very heart of FitzCorbucion territory and his hand tightened on the hilt of the sword.