Edward Marston - Ravens Of Blackwater

Jocelyn saw her distress and rose from his stool to take her into

his arms by way of apology. He did not want to hurt Matilda but he could not pretend to share her fears for their brother. Guy often went astray for a night or two and Jocelyn was glad of these moments of respite. It enabled him to get on with his work without the inevitable interruptions and arguments. Matilda saw it all rather differently and her brother should have respected her feelings. He held her by the shoulders as he tried to explain.

“Father is due back from Normandy any day now,” he said, “and I have promised to master these accounts. I can do that much better when Guy is not here to distract me.”

“That may well be,” she replied, “but Father will be very angry if he returns home to find Guy is absent.”

“It could be an advantage, Matilda.” “Advantage?”

“To have Guy out of the way while they are here.” “Who are you talking about?”

“The royal commissioners.” “Commissioners?”

He gave her a patronising smile then led her across to the door. “Why not leave it all to us?” he said indulgently. “We will sort everything out between us. There is no need for you to be involved in any way.”

“But I am involved,” she said firmly, breaking free and holding her ground. “I am Guy’s sister and I have a sister’s fear for his safety. Who are these commissioners and why do you wish to keep him away from them?”

“Because he might antagonise them.”

“He has a short temper, I grant you.”

“Yes,” said Jocelyn with a sigh. “If he loses it in front of them, he could cause us all grave embarrassment. We have to present our case with discretion.”

“Case? What case?” “Matilda …”

“And do not try to fob me off!” she protested. “I am not an idiot, Jocelyn. I can read, write, and hold a civilised conversation. I speak the Saxon tongue better than any of you and I have a deeper insight into their customs. More to the point, I am old enough to be told about anything that threatens our future here at Blackwater Hall.” She took a step closer to him. “A case, you say? Are we to be put on trial in some way?”

“There will be judicial process.” “Why?”

“Because the Conqueror has decreed it.” He took a deep breath and

gave her the salient details as succinctly as he could. “When another Danish invasion seemed likely, King William needed to know the extent and disposition of the wealth of this country. He ordered a description of all England so that he could see how best to raise taxes and secure knight service. Teams of commissioners were sent all over the land to gather the relevant information.”

A memory stirred. “Have we not already had such visitors to Maldon?”

she recalled.

“We have, indeed,” he said, “and Father appeared in the shire court to answer all their questions before a sworn jury. When they completed their work, they went away.”

“What has brought them back?” “Suspicion.”

“Of what nature?”

“We will not know until they arrive,” said Jocelyn. “All that we received was a letter to warn of their approach. This great inventory is being drawn up by the Exchequer clerks in Winchester. They have seen a number of irregularities in the returns for Maldon, enough to justify the sending of a new team of commissioners. Father has the major holdings in this part of Essex so our demesne will come under review. We must be able to defend ourselves with sound argument and legal charter.”

Matilda understood. Guy was altogether too headstrong for the niceties of judicial process. Jocelyn, at once more shrewd and

conscientious, would be a far better advocate even though he lacked his brother’s iron will. The most effective lawyer of them all was Hamo FitzCorbucion, a man who combined the aggression of one son with the skill of the other while adding a cunning tenacity that were all his own. He would not be cowed by royal officials.

“We need Father here,” she said. “He holds the land.” “I can deal with them,” boasted Jocelyn.

“What are these irregularities of which you speak?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. Matilda had the all-too-familiar feeling that something of importance was being kept from her for no better reason than that she was a woman. It was exasperating. She knew little of the administration of the estate and even less about any illegalities that had taken place. But one thing was as clear as crystal to her: Royal commissioners would not make such a long and arduous journey to Maldon unless there were serious mistakes to rectify. Blackwater was definitely under threat.

“How much do we stand to lose?” she asked levelly.

Jocelyn said nothing but his patent discomfort was an answer in itself. She sensed acute problems. Before she could press for details, however, there was a loud banging on the door. Her brother was relieved by the intrusion.

“Come in!” he called.

The door opened and the steward came quickly into the room. When he saw Matilda, he stifled his news and stood there with an expression of grim dismay.

“Well?” said Jocelyn.

“It concerns your brother,” muttered the steward. Matilda was alerted. “Guy?”

“Where is he?” asked Jocelyn. The delay irked him. “Speak up,

man. You may talk in front of Matilda. She has a right to hear anything that touches on Guy.”

The man nodded. “He has been found, my lord.” “Where?”

“In the River Blackwater.”

Matilda gasped. “Was he drowned?”

“No, my lady,” said the steward. “Murdered.”

The decision to ride on as far as Mountnessing proved to be a wise one. Its manor house was large enough to accommodate the six main guests and the soldiers were housed for the night in nearby dwellings. The weary travellers were given a cordial welcome. When a meal had been served and eaten with gratitude, Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla excused themselves and withdrew to their chamber. Gervase Bret noticed that the older woman kept the leather pouches within reach at all times and took them with her when she left. He

himself was sharing a chamber with Ralph Delchard. When the two of them retired for the night, he raised the topic with his friend.

“You have aroused my curiosity, Ralph,” he said. “I would dearly

love to take a look inside those pouches.”

Ralph beamed. “Canon Hubert has already done so.” “The prioress showed him?”

“No, but he contrived a quick peep.”

“How?”

“By sheer persistence,” said Ralph. “I heard the story from him as we sat at the table. He wanted to know what books had been given to Maldon Priory by way of gifts. Hubert was really testing the noble lady and sounding out the depths of her knowledge. She surprised him.”

“How?”

“With the readiness of her answers. Our prioress is highly educated and well versed in these sacred texts. Canon Hubert was duly chastened.”

“That will do him no harm.” They shared a laugh. “Do you remember the names of any of the books?”

“I took particular note of them, Gervase, because I knew that you would ask. Now let me see …” He lay back on his mattress with his hands behind his head and pondered. “The first was De Consolatione.”

“Boethius.”

“Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum.” “The Venerable Bede.”

“De Miraculis Christi.” “Isidore of Seville.”

“Then there was a book of tropes, two psalters, a gospel book in English, a summer lectionary, a winter lectionary, and the Cura Pastoralis of Gregory the Great. Yes, I think that was all.”

“No hymn books?”

“None, Gervase.”

“No missals, no breviary, no book of homilies?”