After that, they were like ships becalmed after a fierce storm. Hubert continued with his studies and proved himself to be an adept scholar in theology, philosophy, grammar and syntax, a young man with what one magister called ‘the gift of tongues’, not only the classics, Latin and Greek, but Norman French and German. Adam, in the mean time, had been apprenticed to the trade of a skinner and leatherer. He proved himself skilful but soon won a reputation for being distant and aloof, keeping himself to himself. The only person with whom he would relax was his brother on his infrequent visits back to the city from the halls of Cambridge. Hubert eventually entered the Benedictine order, while Adam became a tradesman in his own right, a citizen inheriting what was left of his father’s money and estate. Never once did he ever go back to the family manor farm, and through the Guild he salted money away with goldsmiths in the city.
Adam always felt as if he was separate from the rest of mankind, even here on the ship; it was as if a great gulf yawned between himself and God’s other creatures. Now and again he had visited his parents’ graves in St Mildred’s but never once went inside the church. He found the mass and other ceremonies boring, and where possible he excused himself from the mysteries of the Guild: their annual ceremonies, parades, festivities, the offering of votive candles, what Adam secretly called ‘their empty mummery’ at the various churches in Canterbury or its great cathedral. On occasion he visited Becket’s magnificent shrine, but even then he was more interested in how much it was worth. He’d stare greedily at the great jewels gleaming in the gold sheeting and wondered how easy it would be to steal them.
At other times Adam felt a seething anger which he couldn’t express until one night, just after Michaelmas, he’d been gambling in a tavern in the Mercery. A quarrel broke out and his opponent had called Adam ‘a whoreson’. Adam couldn’t really remember what happened next; all he could recall was his opponent’s slobbering mouth in his unshaven face. The man leaned across, repeating those foul curses, those awful words about his parents, then Adam’s knife was in the man’s throat and Adam was fleeing for his life. He eventually sheltered in London, but found it difficult as he wasn’t a member of a Guild to secure any meaningful employment, so he drifted down to Queenshithe and secured passage aboard a wool ship sailing for Dordrecht. There, amongst that foreign port’s inns and shabby alehouses, he discovered his true calling. He was a natural-born seaman, a sailor. He loved the sea and studied its ways, its cruelty, the fury of the winds, the management of a ship and the organisation of its crew. At first he applied his skill with a coven of river pirates operating off the mouth of the Scheldt, but due to his cunning, ferocity and bravery soon won the attention of others and became a privateer sponsored by the powerful merchants of Hainault to sail out with letters of marque to intercept, pillage and destroy enemy ships.
Some years ago Blackstock had bought The Waxman, selected his crew and declared war against all men, having no fear of God or his own kind. At the same time news came from England that Hubert had abruptly fled the Benedictine community at Westminster and urgently wished to meet his half-brother. One August night Blackstock took The Waxman up the River Orwell and met his brother at the deserted hermitage. They had embraced, clasped and kissed each other. Hubert had confessed that he had little time for God and certainly none for the Benedictine order. He declared that the death of his monastic calling had been due to a visit from Brocare, their father’s kinsman. Brocare had survived the massacre by fleeing, and out of shame and fear had kept himself hidden until remorse and a desire for revenge had driven him back into what he called the daylight of their lives. Brocare was full of guilt, desperate to do something to avenge the great wrongs perpetrated. No one had ever discovered who was responsible for the attack on the Blackstock manor and the bloody massacre that followed, but Brocare had his own suspicions. He had produced a list of possible suspects which he shared with Hubert, and the monk realised he had been living a fool’s life in a world where cruel rapacity was the order of the day. He and Adam agreed that the night their parents died, their own souls had also died. God had taken everything from them so they would give nothing to God. Hubert explained how he was now hired by mayors, sheriffs and bailiffs as a venator hominum, a hunter of men, tracking down outlaws, bringing them to justice and claiming the reward. He had even hunted members of the coven who had murdered their parents, though in the main, death had placed most of these beyond his reach. He confided to Adam that some had been Canterbury men, which only deepened the brothers’ hatred and contempt for that city.
In the end, Hubert and Adam spoke little about the past but planned for the future. They agreed to meet more often. Both men realised that what had happened so many years ago outside Canterbury had scarred their lives and only vengeance could purge their anger. Taken up by the surge of life, they could do nothing but go with it. Over the succeeding months they grew even closer. Hubert would often share information with his brother, who would reciprocate by handing over plunder for Hubert to sell to the denizens of the underworld in London, Bishop’s Lynn, Bristol and Dover, where goods could be moved and sold without any questions asked. .
Blackstock hung grimly to the rigging ropes, straining against the sway of the ship. He glanced over his shoulder at Stonecrop, his lieutenant and manservant, a dour man who stood hunched, head and face almost hidden by his deep-cowled cloak.
‘You are sure of this, master?’
Blackstock turned. Stonecrop approached, pushing back his cowl to reveal black hair closely shorn over a lean, spiteful face. Blackstock had met him in Dordrecht some years ago and saved him in a tavern brawl. Stonecrop had proved to be his man, body and soul, in peace and war. He had eyes as dead as night, black and lifeless. Hubert didn’t like him, adding that he certainly didn’t trust him. Blackstock did. He recognised himself in Stonecrop, a man who cared for nothing and no one.
‘I’ve told you.’ Blackstock turned away. ‘I met Hubert in Wissant; he confirmed the treasure must exist.’ He pointed through the grey, misty drizzle towards the coastline. ‘We will soon make landfall at Orwell and thread our way up to the hermitage. Hubert will be there.’
‘Why didn’t he come with us?’
Blackstock laughed. ‘Hubert doesn’t like the sea. Anyway, he had other business to do, a matter between him and me, not you.’
Stonecrop pulled his cowl back over his head and turned away whilst his master stared up at the great mast, its canvas sail furled back. Once again Blackstock looked round, making sure all was well, lookouts posted in the prow and stern vigilant for rocks.
Now his thoughts turned to the Cloister Map; that was what its owner, the German Merchant Paulents, had called the ancient manuscript. The map had been sketched in the form of a cloister and marked an area of wasteland in Suffolk around a cluster of ancient barrows near the River Denham. According to the map, one of these barrows contained the vast treasure hoard of some barbarian king buried in a longship packed from prow to stern with gold, silver plate, precious jewels and costly armour, a king’s ransom waiting to be claimed.