we coax a trot out of Hubert’s donkey, we might run them down before the end of the afternoon. We will be pleased to offer them our protection.”
“That reassures me greatly.”
“Then let us not tarry,” suggested Gervase. “We must press on as far as we can today.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Brother Simon, still puce with embarrassment at the thought of being inside a nunnery. “We must go at once.”
“All in good time,” said Hubert, devouring the last of the chicken and washing it down with a mouthful of wine. “I must have further conference with Abbess Aelfgiva.”
“Then I will leave you to it while I round up my men in readiness,” decided Ralph, getting to his feet. “Eight lusty knights set loose in a nunnery-I must call them to heel before they are converted to Christianity.”
Hubert shot him a look of reproof but the abbess gave him a discreet
smile from inside the folds of her wimple. When Ralph expressed his thanks for her hospitality and withdrew, Simon saw his opportunity to follow suit. Gervase remained in the parlour with the others. Highly aware of Hubert’s many shortcomings, he was not blind to the man’s abilities and these were now put on display in the most convincing manner.
Barking Abbey was not just another Benedictine house dedicated to the greater glory of God. It was the spiritual centre for the whole region and the repository of an immense amount of news and information. When anything of importance happened in the county of Essex, the abbess soon heard about it and time spent in her company was highly rewarding if a way could be found to draw her out. Canon Hubert did it with consummate skill, first whining her confidence with a soft but persuasive flattery and then extracting all that he needed to know. It was done in such a swift and painless manner that Abbess Aelfgiva hardly knew that it was happening. When the two men finally bade her farewell, they were armed with a deal of valuable intelligence about the shire through which they were travelling.
Ralph Delchard took the column of horses off on the next stage of its journey. Riding beside him, Gervase talked of the cunning interrogation he had just witnessed.
“Hubert was masterly.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“He turned the abbess on like a tap and information poured out of her. It was a striking performance.”
“Between Hubert and a woman! Never!”
“We heard much praise of Maldon Priory.” “Spare me the details, Gervase.”
“And much criticism of Hamo FitzCorbucion.”
“Now, that is more interesting,” conceded Ralph. “We will have to call Hamo before us on many charges. What did the noble lady have to say on that disagreeable subject?”
“Exactly what the documents tell us,” said Gervase as he patted the leather satchel, which was slung from the pommel of his saddle. “FitzCorbucion is a notorious landgrabber, feared by all and sundry, rejoicing in that fear. He is entirely without scruple and will fight over every inch of land and blade of grass we try to take from him.”
“Then we must fight harder.”
“Abbess Aelfgiva warned us to move with care.”
Ralph was scornful. “We have a royal warrant to support us,” he said. “That means we can slap down any man in the land if he obstructs our purpose. The abbess may treat Hamo with caution but I will stand for none of his antics. I am not riding all this way to be thwarted by a robber baron.” He relaxed slightly and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “What did you think of the place?”
“Barking Abbey? I was most impressed.”
“So was the Conqueror,” said Ralph. “He stayed there until they had built enough of the Tower of London for him to be accommodated in the city. It is one of the reasons why he acknowledged all of the Abbey charters. Barking lost none of its holdings.”
“Unlike Waltham.”
“Yes, Gervase. Unlike Waltham.”
Barking Abbey was one of the wealthiest of the nine English nunneries. Only Wilton and Shaftesbury had richer endowments and a larger annual income. The Conquest had inflicted little damage on these houses but the same could not be said for Waltham Abbey, which lay not far north of Barking. The college of secular canons was founded by King Harold and punished because of that association. Before he succeeded to the throne, Harold was Earl of Essex with over thirty manors in the county. William the Conqueror seized these, along with the estates formerly owned by Waltham Abbey, feeling that he had just cause to strip the latter of its bounty. Gervase Bret reminded his companion why.
“King Harold was buried at Waltham,” he said. Ralph tensed. “Who?”
“King Harold.”
“Edward the Confessor was the last king of England.” “Apart from Harold Godwinesson.”
“He was a usurper.”
“Not if you are a Saxon.”
“Do not provoke me, Gervase,” said Ralph wearily. “Only those who win battles are entitled to write about them. We did not defeat a lawful sovereign at Hastings: We killed an upstart earl with too little respect for Duke William’s claim to the throne. Harold was hit by a Norman arrow and cut down by Norman swords. It was no more than he deserved.”
“That is a matter of opinion.”
“And a statement of fact.”
“Whatever you may say, he ruled as King of England.”
“Well, he was not buried with the honour due to a royal person,” said Ralph. “His mistress, Edith Swan-neck, had to scour the battlefield to find his mangled corpse. It was she who brought the bag of bones all the way back to Essex.”
“This was King Harold’s county,” said Gervase with quiet compassion. “It has suffered cruelly as a result.”
“It will suffer even more when we get to Maldon!”
As soon as he spoke the words, Ralph wished that he could call them back because they did not represent his true feelings. He was fiercely proud of the Norman achievement in England and determined to do all he could to enforce it, but that did not mean his view of the Saxon population was completely heartless. Gervase had caught him on the raw by reviving the eternal argument about Harold’s right to be called the King of England. In fact, Ralph had some sympathy for the people of Essex. There was no shire in the realm where the hand of the Conqueror had fallen more heavily. They were riding through dispossessed territory.
The party made good progress, breaking into a trot from time to time and increasing it to a canter when they came to suitable terrain. After a couple of hours, they paused to water the horses, stretch their legs, and empty their bladders. Then they were back in the saddle again. Another hour had passed before they heard the commotion ahead of them. At first they thought it was the sound of a hunt, pursuing deer or wild boar through the forest, but the scream of a young woman suddenly cut through this illusion. Ralph’s sword was in his hand on the instant and he raised it aloft.
“Follow me!” he commanded.
He spurred his mount into action and his men galloped after him with their weapons drawn. Gervase Bret went with them and Canon Hubert was left behind with Brother Simon. The two of them kicked maximum speed out of their unwilling animals and wobbled off after the others. Ralph and his men thundered through the undergrowth as if they were in a cavalry charge, their harnesses jingling and the hooves of their destriers sending up such a flurry of earth that the ground was pitted for hundreds of yards. The noise ahead grew louder and the scream took on a new intensity. Snapping off branches and scattering leaves, the soldiers rode hell-for-leather towards the sounds of a brawl and the cries of distress.
When they came out of the trees, they found themselves in a field that sloped gently away towards a coppice below. A dozen or more figures were engaged in a bitter struggle and the clang of steel rang out across the grass. In the very heart of the melee were two nuns, clinging for dear life to their horses and totally at the mercy of the
violence that raged around them. Ralph Delchard assessed the problem at a glance. The visitors who had left Barking Abbey were the victims of an ambush. Instant rescue was needed to save their lives. Letting out a piercing battle cry, Ralph held his sword straight out like a lance and his men fanned out in a line behind him. Destriers bred for battle could finally show their paces. Men-at-arms who were trained for combat felt their blood race with excitement. The troop came hurtling down the slope like an avenging army.