“Bring the men and ride to Northey Island.”
“Again, my lord?” said the steward. “He’s still there! I smelled his stink!” “Will you be at the hall, my lord?” “No! I will lead the search.”
“Now?” said Fulk in surprise.
“Now!” confirmed Hamo. “Guy is in his grave. We must find the slave who put him there.” He raised his voice to a bellow as his knights milled around him. “Catch him alive and fetch him before me. I’ll make him eat his own offal before I tear him to pieces with my bare hands! Away!”
Tovild the Haunted lifted his shield up on one arm and held his spear poised in the other hand. He was ready for battle. The tide was ebbing fast and the causeway, which reached out the island, rose briefly above the water before being washed under again. A stiff breeze tore at the white hair that streamed out from below his helmet. In the armour of a Saxon warrior of old, Tovild took his brave stance and declaimed his speech to the gulls.
“The tide went out, the pirates stood ready, many Vikings eager for battle. Then the protector of heroes commanded a warrior, stern in fight, to hold the bridge; he was called Wulfstan, bold among his race …”
Gervase Bret recognised him at once and he also knew the poem whose words were being thrown up into the sky with such challenge. Tovild was not just quoting from “The Battle of Maldon,” he was re-enacting it with weapon and gesture. Gervase watched as a phantom Viking was speared to death, then he stepped forward to interrupt the carnage.
“You are Tovild, I believe?” he said.
“My name is Wulfstan,” said the other. “Leave me be.” “I must speak with you, Tovild.”
“We are fighting a battle.” “The Vikings will win.”
“Not if I hold the bridge!” He killed another imaginary attacker then warded off a third with his shield. “Fight beside me, young man. Our leader commands it.”
“Rest yourself from the fray, sir. You deserve it.”
Gervase stood right in front of him and the spear was raised to strike him. He got a much closer look into the gnarled face this time. Tovild was ancient. The scrawny body looked ridiculous in the armour and the weight of shield and lance was already making him breathe stertorously, but he did not desist. He was animated by a spirit that drove him on to fight a battle that had been won and lost almost a century earlier on that same bank of the estuary. His eyes flared with anger and his arm drew back. When the spear was hurled, however, it sank harmlessly into the ground beside Gervase.
“Thank you, Tovild. I will not keep you long.” “Who are you?” croaked the old man.
“My name is Gervase Bret.” “Saxon or Viking?”
“Saxon, like you. We have met before.” “You fought at the battle?”
“We met yesterday. I searched among the reeds. You came out of the bushes to speak to me. Do you not remember?”
Tovild narrowed his eyes to squint at Gervase but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze. He put his shield down beside the spear then beckoned his companion over.
“Question me with wise words, young man,” he said. “It concerns a murder.”
“Let not thy thought be hidden.”
“You said you were a witness.”
“I will not tell thee my secret if thou concealest thy wisdom and the thoughts of thy heart.”
“We need your help, Tovild.”
“Wise men must needs exchange proverbs.” “You know something.”
But the old man clearly did not trust him and he shook his head slowly from side to side. The eyes now had a cunning glint to them as if Tovild was enjoying a game with his questioner. He began to hum quietly to himself.
“Listen to me,” said Gervase, enunciating his words carefully. “There was a murder. A young man was stabbed to death in the marshes. You saw it, Tovild.”
“Yes, yes,” he admitted with a cackle. “Tell me what happened.”
“A raven was killed.”
“How?”
“I hate all ravens.” “What happened?”
“The knife cut his wings off.”
“Who did it?”
Gervase put a hand on his arm but he jumped back as if he had been scalded and rubbed the place where he had been touched. The Saxon warrior now looked like a beaten child.
“Keep away!” he begged. “You’re a friend of the ravens. You’ve come to peck at me. I won’t help them. Keep away.”
“I’m a friend of Oslac the Priest,” said Gervase, trying to soothe him. “You saw me with him. Yesterday.”
“Oslac?”
“He will vouch for me. I am a visitor here.” Tovild grew faint. “I saw nothing, young sir.” “You did. You told me.”
“The ravens will come for me.”
“I have nothing to do with Blackwater Hall.” “They’ll eat me alive with their beaks.”
“You saw me with Oslac.”
Gervase was up against a powerful blend of madness and apprehension. The old man was an impossible witness. All he wanted was to be left alone to fight his battle once more. Tovild the Haunted patently knew something about the murder of Guy FitzCorbucion but he was too confused to remember much about it and too frightened to admit the little he did recall. Gervase made a vain attempt to pluck a few details out of him but his efforts were short-lived. There was a rumble of thunder behind him and he turned to see what it was.
The sight was daunting. Hamo FitzCorbucion had shaken off all the restraints of mourning. He was riding towards them at full pelt with his sword in his hand and forty armed men at his back. It was a veritable cavalry charge and there was no doubt where it was heading. Gervase was forced to jump back as Hamo pounded past him onto the causeway. Fulk and the leading riders went after him in clamorous pursuit and urgent hooves sent up a thick spray that obliterated them as they splashed their way to the island. Gervase dodged as best he could but they came at him too fast from too many angles. The flank of one horse eventually caught him a glancing blow and knocked him to the ground, leaving him stunned. The hooves of another drummed past his ears. He lay there awhile until the entire troop was safely past him and churning up the water on the surface of the causeway. Hamo and his men were thirsting for blood.
When Gervase felt able to get up, he looked after them as they fanned out across Northey Island. There was no pack of hounds this time. Hamo had the scent of his quarry in his nostrils. It had been a perilous place to be standing and Gervase was grateful that he had survived with no more than a few bruises. He hoped that Tovild had not been hurt by the furious passage of the knights. But the old man was no longer there. The Battle of Maldon had been suspended for the day. Tovild had vanished into thin air like the ghosts who haunted him.
Ralph Delchard was on his best behaviour as they made their way to Maldon Priory with an escort of four men. Canon Hubert had grave reservations about his companion but he also had a profound respect for his abilities as a soldier. Like the canon, Ralph had been chosen by King William himself and no recommendation was higher than that. Other teams of commissioners had been sent out to correct the multiple illegalities unearthed by their predecessors, but few had their reputation for effectiveness. Hubert liked to believe that this was largely due to his presence in the quartet, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that Ralph Delchard’s zestful leadership and Gervase Bret’s penetrating intelligence were the key factors in the commission’s success. It reconciled him to Ralph. When the latter was not making irreverent observations about the Church or about the appetite of one of its luminaries, Canon Hubert could easily tolerate him.
By the same token, Ralph had a sneaking admiration for the prelate and for his undoubted skills both as a lawyer and as an administrator. Although there was much to mock, there was even more to praise. Canon Hubert was a man of some renown at Winchester, possessing all the political shrewdness that was needed for advancement in the Church. There were times when Ralph discovered that he had a bluff affection for his colleague and he enjoyed the ride into Maldon with him.