“Why?” asked Miles.
“Because the town has less to offer a sprightly young man like yourself,” said Ralph. “Maldon is full of Saxon women and celibate nuns. They are like the squirrel that your falcon caught-pretty to look at but hardly fit for the larder. How can you practise the arts of dalliance without a supply of fair maids?”
“We do not lack beautiful women, my lord,” said Miles with a defensive note. “They are here in plenty.”
“I have not seen them,” said Ralph. “They must be hiding behind
their doors in the town or behind their veils at the priory.” He paused for a moment then gave his companion a knowing nudge. “But you are right, Miles. There must be some ladies hereabouts who can make a man’s blood race. He found them, after all.”
“He?”
“Guy FitzCorbucion.” “Why do you say that?”
“Because it is what everybody else says,” explained Ralph. “Your
father among them. Guy was a ladies’ man. He had a reputation for liberality and spread his love around.”
“Guy was as lecherous as a monkey,” agreed Gilbert.
“Then the town must be full of lovely ladies. Unless he was the kind of man to take his pleasures with servant-girls and other poor wretches who were afraid to disobey him.” He looked across at Miles. “What do you think? I know we should not speak ill of the dead but then I do not hold carnal desire to be a sin, so it is no stain on his character. What was Guy really like, Miles?”
“You must ask of others, my lord.”
“But I am told you knew him well.” “Too well.”
Miles Champeney gave a nod of farewell then nudged his horse into a trot until he caught up to the servant who was carrying the wooden pole on which all of the hawks were perched and tethered. Ralph was disappointed. He had learned no more from him than Gervase. As before, it was Gilbert who tried to account for his son’s behaviour.
“It is a difficult time for Miles,” he explained. “He is not usually as
uncivil as this. There is much on his mind and it has made him withdraw into himself. Guy’s murder was bound to cause him anxiety.”
“Anxiety?”
“Yes, Ralph. He may be called to give evidence.” “Called? By whom?”
“The sheriff and his officers.”
“But Miles is not involved in the killing.” “They will want to make sure of that.”
“The murderer has already been named,” said Ralph. “A boy called Wistan whose father was struck down by Guy. They are combing the area now for the lad.”
“Yes,” said Gilbert, “and if they catch him and get a confession out of him, nobody will be more relieved than Miles. But I am not at all sure that this Wistan is the culprit. How could he get close enough to Guy to perpetrate such a foul crime? And what could a boy do against a man who was bigger, stronger, and properly armed?”
“Oslac the Priest thinks that Wistan is innocent.” “I agree with Oslac.”
“Then let us assume he is right.” “If the boy did not do the deed …” “Someone else did.”
“In which case, they will need to question Miles.”
“But why?” said Ralph. “Your son is no killer. Why on earth should the sheriff wish to bother him in any way?”
“Because of a certain incident.”
“Yes. Gervase told me about the fight.” “Did he tell you what caused it?”
“What often causes fights between young men,” said Ralph with
easy cynicism. “A young woman.” “Guy’s sister. Matilda.”
“Your son wishes to marry her.” “Madness!”
“And Matilda seems to requite his love.” “Chaos! It breaks my old heart, Ralph.”
“But you have still not told me why the sheriff and his officers may come looking for Miles. What has he done?”
“When they came to blows,” explained Gilbert, “there were witnesses. They heard what Guy said and they will be duty bound to
report it. Miles did not go in search of trouble that day. He went- against my advice-to see Matilda but her brother caught them together. An argument started and a fight developed. They had to be pulled apart.”
“What was it that Guy said?”
“He vowed that Miles would never marry his sister.” “Were those his exact words?”
“No,” admitted Gilbert. “What he actually said to my son was ‘As long as I live, you will never come near Matilda. I would die sooner than let you touch her.’ Now do you see why Miles is so vexed? He had the best reason of all to kill Guy FitzCorbucion.”
They were waiting for him at the quayside and he could read the disaster in their faces. As soon as the ship was sighted from the house, Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and the steward mounted their horses and rode to the harbour to meet it. They could see Hamo in the prow of the ship, waving happily to them and shouting something that was lost in the wind. When he got close enough to see their dour expressions, the waving stopped and the shouting was directed at the captain as Hamo vainly demanded greater speed from the craft. A successful visit to Coutances and a relatively calm voyage back across the channel had put him in a buoyant mood but it turned to black anger before he even set foot again on English soil. Bad tidings awaited him and Guy’s absence alerted him. The favourite son should certainly have been there to meet the returning father. As the stout bulwark rubbed the quayside in greeting, Hamo jumped nimbly ashore before the first rope had even been tied to steady the ship.
There was no point in delaying the news until they were in a more private place. Hamo FitzCorbucion demanded to know the truth there and then. Jocelyn told him. His father was completely dazed. He refused to believe what he had heard. His elder son, who modelled himself so closely on Hamo, who had his energy, his ambition, and his ruthlessness, who shared his vision in every way, and who stood to inherit Blackwater Hall in the fullness of time, this son, Guy, who had been so strong and unquenchable, was now lying dead. Killed by the son of a slave. It was quite inconceivable. All his love and his hope had been placed on Guy. His wife was now dead, his other son less worthy, his daughter less important, so it was Guy who bore the blessing of his pride and affection.
Hamo FitzCorbucion was a stocky man of moderate height with the narrow, hook-nosed face of a predator and yellow eyes that glared from beneath a mop of black hair. As he fought to accept and understand the dreadful news, his head dropped, his shoulders hunched, and his whole body sagged, but he did not stay like that for long. As incredulity gave way to pain, it was in turn replaced by a cold rage that started deep inside him and slowly coursed through his entire being until he was simply pulsing with fury.
“Where is he?” Hamo asked.
“At the mortuary,” said Jocelyn. “Take me to him.”
“You need time to prepare yourself first.” “Take me to him.”
“Father, there’s something I’ve not told you about-”
“I’ve heard enough!” howled Hamo, grabbing him by the throat and shaking him violently. “God’s wounds, Jocelyn! You say that Guy is dead. You tell me my son has been murdered. Take me to him now!” Jocelyn abandoned all hope of further explanation and led his father to the horse, which they had brought for him. All three of them were soon cantering towards the hill. They went past the priory, past the Church of St. Peter’s, and up to the dark shape of the Church of All Souls’. Oslac was taking confession but Hamo’s urgency brooked no delay and he raised his voice to such a pitch of anger inside the nave that the priest had to break off and calm him down. A sinful parishioner was sent on his way only half-shriven so that the lord of the manor of Blackwater could be conducted to the mortuary to view the remains of his son.
Oslac unlocked the heavy door and led the way into the dark, dank, little chamber, which was filled with the stench of decay. Herbs and fresh rushes had been placed around the slab to freshen the atmosphere but they were unable to compete with the reek of rotting flesh. Hamo retched.
“Dear God in heaven!” he exclaimed.