Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

When they came out of the trees, they found themselves in a field that sloped gently away towards a coppice below. A dozen or more figures were engaged in a bitter struggle and the clang of steel rang out across the grass. In the very heart of the melee were two nuns, clinging for dear life to their horses and totally at the mercy of the

violence that raged around them. Ralph Delchard assessed the problem at a glance. The visitors who had left Barking Abbey were the victims of an ambush. Instant rescue was needed to save their lives. Letting out a piercing battle cry, Ralph held his sword straight out like a lance and his men fanned out in a line behind him. Destriers bred for battle could finally show their paces. Men-at-arms who were trained for combat felt their blood race with excitement. The troop came hurtling down the slope like an avenging army.

Down by the coppice, there was a break in the fighting. The attackers

were burly men in nondescript armour and an array of helms. Their ambush had been successful. They had hacked one of the armed guards to the ground and wounded another so badly that he was hardly able to defend himself. But they had reckoned without interference, especially of so fearsome a nature, and they rightly judged that they would be no match for the posse of Norman knights now descending upon them from the trees. Their leader barked an order and they fled at once. Deprived of the chance to fight, Ralph vented his spleen by berating them for their cowardice. He and his men pursued them for half a mile but they had too big a start and too good a knowledge of the woodland to be overhauled. Ralph eventually called a halt and the sweating steeds dug their hooves deep into the ground. When the knights got back to the coppice, they found Gervase Bret kneeling over the fallen man and Brother Simon attending to the wounded rider. Canon Hubert was trying to comfort the two nuns who had dismounted from their horses and were holding on to each other. Ralph came up to be introduced to Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla, both of whom were still shaking at their ordeal. The prioress was a tall woman in her fifties with a nobility of bearing that soon reasserted itself and skin as white and shiny as a bowl of melted wax. Pale blue eyes shone out of the glowing mask. Sister Tecla was a slim young woman of middle height with delicate hands that flut-tered like anguished butterflies. Even the wimple could not fully

conceal the haunted beauty of her little face.

When Ralph gave her an admiring smile, she lowered her eyes in confusion.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“We do not know,” said Mindred. “Were they hiding in the coppice?” “They took us unawares.”

“What were they after?”

“What every band of robbers is after,” said Hubert testily. “Money. Those villains had no respect for God. They were ready to lay violent hands upon two sacred ladies.”

Ralph ignored him. “We arrived in the nick of time,” he said. “Did you carry anything of particular value?”

“No, sir,” said the prioress. “Except for a few items we picked up at

Barking Abbey.” “Items?”

“A holy relic and a number of books.”

“Such things are of priceless value,” noted Hubert.

“Only to us,” she said, then afforded herself a gentle smile. “What we carry is some of the precious earth taken from the spot where St. Oswald was killed in battle against the heathen. It is the merest handful, but its power saved us from harm. It brought you to our rescue.”

Four guards had escorted the nuns, lightly armed Saxons who were overwhelmed by the surprise attack. The man on the ground was unconscious and severely injured, but Gervase was confident that he would live. Brother Simon was already binding the gashed arm of the other man to stem the flow of blood. It was important to get the wounded to a place where they could be given proper treatment and the nuns clearly had no enthusiasm for much further travel that day. Ralph announced that they would head for the nearest village and one of the Saxon guards named the place.

“We will spend the night there,” said Ralph, “and give you the opportunity to recover from this vile assault. You need have no more worries about safe conduct to Maldon.”

“We are deeply obliged to you,” said Mindred. “And to St. Oswald,” added Hubert.

“Will you stay long in Maldon?” she asked.

“Unhappily, no,” said Ralph, flicking a wistful glance at the de-mure Sister Tecla. “We are royal commissioners on urgent business. When we have banged a few heads together, we must be on our way. There is nothing, alas, that will delay us in the town of Maldon.”

As the royal commissioners proceeded with their charges, a boat nosed its way slowly into the shallows of the River Blackwater near Maldon. After one more pull on the oars, the man hauled them into the craft and let it drift through the thickening reeds and the lapping water. When he hit something solid, he thought he had reached the bank but he turned round to find himself still several yards away from dry land. Something else had stopped the boat, a piece of driftwood perhaps or some other obstruction that had floated into his path. He clambered up to the prow of the boat and peered into the gloom, using one of the oars to prod about in the water until he encountered what felt like a solid object. It was nothing of the kind. When he pressed down hard, it sank briefly into the mud of the River Blackwater, then shot back to the surface and bobbed there defiantly. He was petrified. Lying on the water in front of him, hideously disfigured and staring up with sightless eyes, was the half-naked body of a man.

Progress was slow. one of the wounded men was able to sit on his mount but the other remained unconscious so they had to build a crude framework of branches interlaced with osiers. Its raised end was slung by ropes from the unconscious man’s horse and he was dragged along on the makeshift bed. They had been able to do little more for him than stem the bleeding from his assorted injuries and it was important not to aggravate his condition by trying to press on too fast. But a slight increase in speed was possible when they left the mean-dering woodland track to join a firmer and straighter thoroughfare. It was the old Roman road between Colchester and London, one of the many that radiated out from the city in the northeast of Essex, which

the legions had chosen as their capital.

An hour or so brought them to Shenfield, but it was no more than a straggle of small houses and did not really answer their needs in any way. The party rested there while word was sent to the village of Hutton, a couple of miles to the east, for the local priest. He eventually arrived on his ancient grey mare and at once revealed his medical skills by examining, treating, and redressing the wounds. The priest strongly advised that both injured men stay in Shenfield until they recovered more fully. Ralph Delchard accepted this counsel and left another of the Saxon bodyguards to watch over the two casualties. Now able to move at a swifter pace, the travellers were keen to use the last few hours of daylight to reach a place that could accommodate all of them in reasonable comfort.

Ralph stayed at the head of the column this time. On the journey to

Shenfield, he rode beside Sister Tecla in the hopes of drawing her into conversation, but the trials of the ambush and her own natural reserve meant that he got no more than an occasional nod or a shake of the head from her. Gervase Bret rode beside him, having taken advantage of the lengthy stop to consult the documents he carried in his voluminous satchel.

“Shenfield is held by a subtenant from Count Eustace of Boulogne,”

he said. “Like whole areas of this shire.”