He did not have to wait long. The frisky dogs grew louder and he caught the jingle of harness for the first time. Spread out in a long line, the search party had combed the island thoroughly and their hounds had scattered sheep, cattle, and any other livestock that got in their way. The barking became more agitated and men’s voices were raised in a shout of triumph. They had found his burrow under the elm tree. Wrapped in some old rags were the few things that he had taken with him when he fled from the house. Worthless to any-one else, the belongings had a sentimental value to Wistan. A club, a carved snake, and a necklace of oyster shells, which his father had made, had now betrayed him. One voice rose high above the others and Wistan shivered. Hamo FitzCorbucion was there.
The hounds set off again and searched the promontory with moist noses and wagging tails while the soldiers hacked at the undergrowth with swords and lances to make sure it did not conceal their quarry. When figures appeared on the bank opposite him, Wistan held his breath and sank below the water, staying there for as long as he could while praying that they would not see him. His fear had been tempered by the spirit of revenge and he wanted to fight back. Hamo had returned from Normandy. Another target for his hatred was now standing on the bank no more than twenty yards away.
His mind was bursting and his lungs were on fire when he finally dared to come up for air. They were still there but the reeds hid him from their gaze. He was about to sink below the water again when Hamo FitzCorbucion gave an order and they all moved off to continue their search elsewhere. Wistan stayed there for an hour before he felt safe enough to return to the bank. Days of freedom had ended dramatically. They had tracked him to his lair and made a decision for him. When darkness fell, Wistan would have to get back to the mainland.
“Domesday Book is indeed an apt name for it,” said Gilbert Champeney. “It spells doom for so many people.”
“It is a survey,” corrected Canon Hubert pedantically. “King William ordered it to be undertaken chiefly for financial and military purposes.” “It is essentially a tax inquest,” argued their host. “And it is made so much easier, as I have always claimed, by the efficiency of the Saxons.”
Ralph Delchard grinned. “If they were so efficient, why did we beat them at Hastings?”
“That is another matter.” Gilbert was into his stride now. “This survey of yours, this Domesday Book, or whatever you choose to call it, provides the King with an exact record of contributions to Danegeld or Heregeld-the one great Anglo-Saxon tax that was levied uniformly on the country. We Normans inherited their system and that makes your job so much the easier.”
“Easier!” snorted Ralph. “If only it were, Gilbert!”
“Do not forget the legal implications,” said Gervase Bret. “Part of the function of the survey is to legalise the changes in land ownership that occurred after the Conquest and to root out the irregularities that have taken place since. It is indeed a kind of Domesday Book.”
Hubert snuffled. “That notion is sacrilegious!”
“I wondered why I liked it so much,” said Ralph.
“The Last Judgement does embody a legal concept,” said Gervase. “And we do seek to uncover sin. It was you, Canon Hubert, who told us we were engaged in a spiritual battle between good and evil.”
“He drags religion into everything!” said Ralph. “So why do you object to this nickname, Hubert? If we are engaged in compiling a Domesday Book, then you are the bold St. Peter who is standing at the gates of Heaven to prevent the unworthy from sneaking in. I should have thought that role would suit you admirably.”
Gervase smiled and Gilbert laughed breathily but the canon inhaled deeply through his nose and chose to maintain a dignified silence until he suffered an inconvenient outbreak of flatulence and had to disguise it beneath a flurry of protests. It was a lively debate. The four of them were sitting over the remains of another fine meal and watching the last hour of a long day slowly expiring. Apart from a few servants waiting to clear the table, everyone else had taken to their beds. Ralph and Hubert were sipping from cups of French wine, Gervase was sampling some home-brewed ale, and the Saxon-loving Gilbert was drinking mead.
“What lies ahead for your tomorrow?” asked Gilbert. “Further deliberations in the shire hall,” said Hubert.
“We will not begin until ten,” Ralph reminded him, “and that will give us ample time for other things. I will take my men out for exercise shortly after dawn.”
“I may join you,” volunteered Gilbert. “Gervase?” “I will stay here.”
“Come with us. A gallop will invigorate you.”
“I will be too busy trotting through more documents,” said Gervase. “Besides, if I can find an hour, I need to spend it with one of your neighbours.”
“Which one?”
“Tovild the Haunted.”
Gilbert chuckled. “Better you than me!”
“Why do you say that?”
“The fellow is crack-brained. He has been fighting the Battle of Maldon these past forty years and he still cannot decide whether he is Saxon or Viking.” Gilbert gave a compassionate shrug of the shoulders. “Tovild will not harm a fly but his company can be troublesome.”
“Where might I find him?”
“On the battlefield,” said Gilbert. “Where else?” He turned to Canon Hubert. “Which will you choose? An hour in the saddle with us or an hour of amiable madness from Tovild the Haunted?”
“Neither,” said Hubert. “Horsemanship does not interest me and I already have enough fools and madmen to deal with. When I have worked and prayed, I will visit the convent. Prioress Mindred invited Brother Simon and me to call on her and her little community.”
“Take me with you,” offered Ralph with enthusiasm.
“The invitation was for two of us only.”
“Then two of us only will go. Brother Simon goes weak at the knees when he gets within a hundred yards of a woman. To take him into the priory would be an ordeal both for him and for the holy sisters. Just think how unhappy he was in Barking Abbey.” Ralph tapped his chest. “I will take Simon’s place. I’ll even wear his cowl, if you wish.”
“I wish that you would reconsider, my lord,” said Hubert. “I do. I’ll omit the cowl but I’ll still come.”
“Prioress Mindred may be a trifle disturbed.”
“Then you will be on hand to comfort her.” Ralph warmed to the prospect. “It will be good to see her and Sister Tecla again. I’ll give both of them your love, Gervase.”
“My regards will be sufficient.”
“Shall I pass them on to Sister Gunnhild as well?” “Who is Sister Gunnhild?” asked Hubert.
“A Danish nun,” explained Gilbert, “and a lady of some distinction.
She takes a leading part in the running of the priory and has only one flaw.”
“Flaw?”
“She disapproves of men.”
“There you are, Hubert,” said Ralph jovially. “Sister Gunnhild is ripe for conversion. She does not sound like my ideal of womanhood so I will leave you to introduce her to the delights of male companionship. I will reserve my attentions for dear Sister Tecla.”
Time had been both kind and cruel to Sister Gunnhild. At an age when most nuns were vexed by failing eyesight and brittle bones, she remained in robust health and shirked none of the manual labour that fell to her. While the years had dealt lightly with her body, however, they had been altogether rougher with her mind and heart.