Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

“Count Eustace always was a greedy pig,” said Ralph. “He owns about eighty manors in Essex.”

“Do they include Hutton?”

“No, they do not. Hutton belongs to St. Martin’s.” “In London?”

“In Sussex.” “Battle Abbey?” “The same.”

“Good!” said Ralph. “In my view, that is the only kind of monastic foundation that has any real purpose. Battle Abbey was raised to mark a Norman victory. The rest of the religious houses that litter this country are full of eunuchs like Brother Simon who like to hear the sound of their own high voices singing Mass.” He turned to Gervase. “And what of this village we ride to now?”

“Mountnessing?”

“Count Eustace or Battle Abbey?”

“Neither,” said Gervase. “I checked the returns made by the first commissioners. Mountnessing is held in lordship by Ranulf, brother of Ilger. The manor runs to nine hides, which is well over a thousand acres. Then there’s a further two hides and more held from Ranulf by William of Bosc.”

“It lies to the northeast, they told us.”

“We shall soon have to leave this road and head off into the woodland again.” Gervase glanced warily around. “I hope that there is no second ambush awaiting us.”

“Those cowards would not dare to attack us!” asserted Ralph. “We could have cut them to ribbons. They only fight when the odds are in their favour.”

“This county is full of outlaws.” “Outlaws?”

“Yes,” said Gervase sadly. “Dispossessed men who’ve had everything taken from them except their urge to fight back. Before the Conquest, they had lands to work and homes in which to raise families. Now they lead lives of servility.”

“You sound as if you pity the wretches.” “I find it hard to blame some of them.”

“Saxons are losers, Gervase. Never forget that. If they had invaded

Normandy and destroyed us in battle, you would shed no tears then for those whose lands were confiscated. In any case,” he said blithely, “did not these same hairy Englishmen whom you count among your forebears once invade this country and take it from the Romans who had themselves seized it by force from the Britons? Might is right. Pity has no place in the breast of a conquering army.”

“And what about mercy?”

“I’d show none to rogues who ambush ladies.”

“No more would I, Ralph,” said Gervase. “They deserve to be caught and punished for that outrage. What I say is that I do have some sympathy for those who are driven into the wilderness and forced to live as outlaws.”

“But these were not outlaws.”

“How do you know?”

“The way they rode, the fashion in which they fought.” “I took them for Saxons by their apparel.”

“You were intended to, Gervase.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those were not renegades who preyed on passing travellers,” explained Ralph. “They were trained soldiers who knew how to lay an ambush. When their captain gave the command, they beat an ordered retreat. No, do not feel sorry for any fellow-Saxons, my friend. They were Normans.”

“Can you be sure?”

“I’d stake my finest horse on it.” “A roving band of soldiers?”

“No, Gervase. Knights from a lord’s retinue. Sent for the express

purpose of launching that attack. They might disguise themselves as

Saxons but their breeding showed through. Norman warriors?” “From where?”

“That is what we must find out.”

“Why ambush two nuns and their escort?”

“Answer the first question and the second will answer itself.” Ralph glanced over his shoulder at the two women who rode further back in the cavalcade. “One thing that I do know, Gervase. Those men were not robbers. If all they wanted was booty, they would simply have set their ambush and grabbed the two sumpter horses before riding off. But they showed no interest at all in the baggage.”

“What, then, were they after?”

“The two ladies. When we came out of the wood, they were trying to overpower the escort in order to get to Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla.” He gave a chuckle. “Given the choice, I’d have taken Sister Tecla myself. She could keep any man warm on a long, cold night.”

Gervase was puzzled. “The ladies were the target?” “They or something that they carried.”

“But they are holy nuns-they have nothing.”

“Look more closely, Gervase,” suggested Ralph. “Sister Tecla may have nothing except an aura of sanctity about her but those leather pouches that sit astride Prioress Mindred’s palfrey are bulging. With what?”

“Gifts from Barking Abbey. Books and a holy relic.”

“What else?”

“That is all. The prioress told us.”

“Then she is lying.” “Shame!”

“Consider the facts,” argued Ralph. “Would a troop of soldiers go to

such lengths to steal a few sacred texts and a handful of earth? And if that is all that those pouches contain, why does the prioress keep them beside her instead of on one of the sumpter horses?” He warmed to his theme. “We did not only rescue two noble ladies in distress back there, Gervase. We stumbled on an intriguing situation. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla went to Barking Abbey to collect something of great significance.”

“The books and the relic of St. Oswald.”

“There has to be more than that. Remember that the ambush was not laid on the outward journey from Maldon but on the return. When they had picked up their cargo.”

“Indeed, it was,” said Gervase thoughtfully. “Your reasoning begins to make sense. Those attackers must have wanted their prize very badly.”

“A prize that is hidden in those leather pouches.” “What could it possibly be?”

“Who knows?” said Ralph with a grin. “But we will have pleasure trying to find out. It will give us something to exercise our mind on the journey. Ride with Sister Tecla tomorrow and question her. I got no word at all out of her but you have a lawyer’s skill in making people talk. She is your quarry now. I will tackle the prioress.”

“Do not be too rough with her.”

“I will probe softly till I catch her off guard. You must do the same with her sweet companion. Oh, and while you are about it, Gervase, bear one thing in mind.”

“What is that?”

“Nuns tell lies,” said Ralph. “All the time.”

Jocelyn FitzCorbucion was sitting in his apartment at Blackwater Hall. On the table before him were manorial accounts that required urgent study, but Matilda was pushing a more immediate problem in front of his nose.

“He has been gone for days now, Jocelyn!” she said. “That does not concern me.”

“Guy is missing. We should search for him.”

“He has been missing before, Matilda,” said her brother easily. “Do not worry about him. Sooner or later, Guy always comes back-unfortunately.”

“Something may have happened to him.”

A rueful nod. “Yes, and we all know what it is!” “Guy may be in danger.”

“He is well able to take care of himself.”

“But he has never been gone this long before.” “All that means is that he hunts further afield.” “Go after him, Jocelyn.”

“He would hardly thank me for that!” “If he is in trouble …”

“Forget about him,” said Jocelyn impatiently. “Guy has gone where he always goes. Our brother is a rutting stag who has galloped off in search of a fresh doe!”

The force and the bluntness of his rejoinder brought a faint blush to Matilda’s cheeks. She was a short, shapely young woman of sev-enteen in a russet gown that was held at the waist by a gold-braided belt. Matilda had the lustrous black hair of the FitzCorbucions but its bluish tinge was more pronounced. Held in a gold fillet, her hair was brushed away from her face to reveal its oval beauty and luminous skin. She had a gentle demeanour that was quite out of place in Blackwater Hall. Although she found it hard to love her elder brother, she could still be anxious over his prolonged disappearance. Alarm clouded her soft green eyes and furrowed her shining brow. Her tenderness could even reach out to someone as unworthy of it as Guy, who always treated her with cool indifference. She nevertheless cared. Matilda FitzCorbucion was truly a dove among ravens.