“Wistan!”
The name had been enough to ignite the spirit of Tovild the Haunted. When his brave compatriot fell, he had to fight on to keep the invader at bay. Saxon pride compelled him to win the Battle of Maldon once and forever.
“Wistan!”
With every ounce of his remaining strength, he thrust with his spear at the advancing enemy. Hamo was about to bring his sword down for the kill when the point of Tovild’s blade went clean through his unguarded neck and out through the back. Blood spurted wildly. There was a loud gurgle of pain and outrage, then the lord of the manor of Blackwater fell backward to the floor with terrifying finality.
Resignation was alien to the character of Miles Champeney. He could never simply accept defeat with a philosophical shrug. His harsh reception at Blackwater Hall had hurt his pride but it had not weakened his determination to rescue Matilda from her imprisonment in her own home. He wanted to go straight back to the house and force his way in, but common sense told him that this was a forlorn hope. He had to be far more careful next time. Although he had nobody to take a message to his beloved, he had her servant to give him advice about the habits of the household and the best way to penetrate its defences. The man had even more cause to help him now. But for the kind intercession of Miles’s father, the servant would still be locked away in what might well have turned out to be his tomb. Loyal to Matilda, the man also owed allegiance to the Champeneys.
Loyalty was something that now troubled Miles himself. His father’s opposition to the match had been distressing but it had also strength-ened his resolve. When he had ridden out from Champeney Hall in the night, he had experienced few qualms at turning his back on a man who was so hostile to his choice of bride. Filial duty had been cast aside by the urgency of his love. Now it was different. Gilbert Champeney had shown a father’s devotion when he came to bargain for the freedom of his son. Given the fact that he was also bearing forged documents, he had acted with considerable coolness and tenacity, even to the extent of securing the release of the blameless messenger. Yet Miles was planning to betray the old man once again, to steal away in the night in order to free Matilda from custody.
There seemed to be no way to reconcile the conflicting loyalties. His love of his father was strong but it paled beside his devotion to Matilda. She was being blamed for the faults of her family. The name of FitzCorbucion was like the mark of a leper upon her. Miles shook off his feelings of guilt. His own needs were paramount. He had to devise a plan to get into the house at a time when they would least expect him and that required the connivance of the servant. A plan had to be set in motion at once. He went off in search of the man but could not find him anywhere in the house. Miles came out into the courtyard and crossed to the stables.
He was about to call out for the servant when he was distracted. A lone figure was riding slowly towards the house in the middle distance. He thought at first that it must be his father, returning from a morning at the shire hall, but the posture of the rider and the gentle gait of the horse soon changed his mind. It was a woman. When she got closer, Miles saw that it was a young woman. For a moment, he could not believe what he was looking at and blinked in wonderment. He could recognise her profile, her attire, even her palfrey. She waved to him. He had spent all that time trying to plot her rescue and Matilda FitzCorbucion was now coming towards him. It was the answer to a prayer. Miles let out a gasp of joy and sprinted across the grass to meet her, grabbing the bridle of her horse, then catching her in his arms when she dropped down to him.
They held each other in a fierce embrace and kissed away the long separation. Miles Champeney did not know whether to laugh or cry as he clutched her to him.
“How on earth did you escape?” he asked. “I went to church.”
“Church?”
“Yes,” she said. “Father Oslac looked the other way.”
Prioress Mindred was in her quarters with Sister Lewinna when the bell rang, trying to still the nun’s waywardness with some kind words of advice and suggesting that the homely wisdom of Aesop’s Fables should be supplemented with a study of Aldhelm’s De Virginitate. Visitors were not expected. Sister Lewinna was sent to answer the door and returned breathlessly with the news that Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were insisting on another interview with the prioress. Mindred composed herself and told the young nun to conduct the visitors in to her. Sister Lewinna obeyed at once then left the three of them alone.
The guests were invited to sit down and the prioress lowered herself into her chair. Having believed that she had routed them, she was disturbed by their return and by the quiet determination of their manner.
“We are sorry to intrude once more,” said Ralph, “but it was unavoidable. We believe that what we are seeking is within the walls of this convent, after all.”
“I thought I dealt with all your enquiries,” she said.
“You did, my lady prioress, but there was something that you held back from us, something of crucial importance.” She shifted uneasily on her chair. “Before we come to that, however, there is something you should know because it has a bearing on our visit. Hamo FitzCorbucion is dead.”
“Dead!” She was aghast. “When did this happen?”
Ralph gave a terse account of events at the shire hall that morning and explained that Tovild the Haunted had been taken into custody by the sheriff. The circumstances had forced a postponement of their own deliberations and enabled them to address themselves to a related problem. Hamo had been killed by a mad old man, but his son’s murderer was still at large and had to be brought to justice. Prioress Mindred listened with evident discomfort and steeled herself.
“St. Oswald brought us back here,” said Ralph. “He has helped us just as he once helped you. Gervase will explain.”
“That chalice gave us a link with Blackwater Hall,” said Gervase. “When we put a chalice and a raven together, we had the emblem of St. Benedict and that seemed to sit easily on a Benedictine house like this. But St. Oswald has an emblem as well.”
“Raven and ring,” she said dully.
“That is what the chalice was,” said Gervase. “A ring. It was a token of love given by Guy FitzCorbucion to Sister Tecla. It was the most valuable thing he possessed and he offered it to her in order to win her favours. Other ladies succumbed readily to his charms, it seems, but Sister Tecla-or Tecla, as she then was-held him at bay until he gave her a promise of marriage.”
“The chalice was that promise,” said Ralph.
“A ring to mark their betrothal,” continued Gervase. “When she submitted to him, he soon tired of her and demanded the return of his gift. Tecla refused but she knew that she could not hold out against a FitzCorbucion. She fled to the only place of refuge-this priory.”
Mindred let out a cry of alarm and crossed herself.
“There was a slight complication,” said Gervase softly. “She was carrying his child. I do not know what happened to it, but I suspect that she lost it. You spoke earlier of her physical collapse and of her spiritual deterioration. I believe that came in the wake of the baby’s death.”
“Go on,” she murmured.
“The chalice had been a ring to confirm her betrothal but Guy had forsaken her. It then became the baby she had lost. She pined for it at Barking Abbey. When you took the chalice to her, she was like a child with a doll.”