“She may not wish to see you.” “Let her be the judge of that.”
Hamo glanced at the chalice and back at him. Oslac had done him a great favour by returning the object to him. It was a good omen for the day ahead. Two vital tasks awaited him. He had to confound the royal commissioners and find his son’s killer. Matilda was an irrelevance now. Her planned elopement had been scotched and Miles Champeney had been driven away forever from the estate. Hamo felt in an almost bountiful mood for once and he reasoned that a priest could do no harm. Even if his daughter were to moan about the loss of her beloved, Oslac was powerless to do anything more than express sympathy. Matilda was still locked in her chamber, tearful and mutinous by turns, but no longer a problem to her father. He decided that a visit from the priest might actually calm her down.
“Very well,” he agreed. “Matilda is in need of comfort. Spend a little time with her and do what you may.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Tell her about the chalice. It may cheer her up.”
It had taken him a long time to find a way into the shire hall. Wistan did not wish to break a window or force a door because that would have led to a thorough search of the premises to see what had been taken by the intruder. Instead he opted for the infinitely slower process of cutting himself a way in under the eaves, skewering out the reeds with the end of his sword until he made a hole just big enough to squirm through. Once inside, he stuffed the displaced thatch back into position to cover the hole. It would not survive close inspection but he was hoping that those who came into the shire hall would be far too busy to worry about some minor damage to the roof.
When daylight began to peep in at him, he was able to choose his hiding place with care. It was high in the roof beams and right at the back of the hall. Squeezed in under the thatch, he would be completely invisible. His view was obscured by the rafters but he could hear everything. When Hamo FitzCorbucion and Jocelyn came in, he would know. The sword was out of its scabbard and resting beside him on a thick beam. He had merely to grab it and the death of Algar could at last be avenged in the only fitting way. The noise of a key in a lock made him prick his ears and tense his muscles, but there was no cause for alarm. It was the town reeve. He came in to check that everything was in order. Servants brought in refreshments and set them out on the trestle table before scurrying back out. The reeve himself soon left. Wistan was satisfied with his vantage point. They could not see him.
It was not long before two other figures entered. Their voices were raised in argument as they made their way towards the table at the far end of the hall.
“That is the last time I put faith in riddles, Gervase!” “I still think that we were on the right track.”
“Follow it on your own!”
“Tovild witnessed that murder.”
“Yes,” said a peeved Ralph. “At the Battle of Maldon.”
Gervase reflected. “Magpie. I am certain the answer was magpie. What else could it be, Ralph?”
“I have no idea, but I am not barging in there again like that. It was
an ordeal!” He pointed a finger. “There I was, waiting for you to pull out that murder weapon and thrust it under her nose so that she would confess-and what happens? You never even got the chance. She was plainly innocent of everything of which we accused her. We were made to look complete fools, Gervase. We were wrong about her, wrong about Sister Tecla, wrong about the knife, wrong about Oslac, and wrong about the whole stupid idea of magpies!” He perched on the edge of the table. “What, in God’s name, did we actually get right?”
“That chalice.”
“It takes a lot to make me blush-but I did!”
“That must have been the reason for the ambush.” “A nun embarrassing me! It’s unthinkable.”
“All we have to do is to find out how that chalice got there in the first place and why Guy FitzCorbucion-it had to be him-was so keen to get it back.” He turned to Ralph. “You’re not listening to me.”
“No, Gervase. I’ve had enough for one morning.” “But we have picked up the trail.”
“It leads straight back to mad old Tovild!” yelled Ralph. “This is all a game that he’s playing with us. Hunt the Magpie! The only bird that comes into this is a great black raven named Hamo.”
“Calm down, Ralph.”
“The chalice is back with the raven again! Hamo can don a cowl and pass himself off as St. Benedict!” He went off into a mirthless laugh then gave a sigh of apology. “I am sorry, Gervase, but I hate to be caught on the wrong foot like that. The chalice was the essence of our case but the prioress denied all knowledge of its true ownership. And I believe the noble lady. You heard her. She swore on the grave of St. Oswald.”
“Indeed, she did …”
Gervase Bret stared straight ahead with eyes glistening and mouth agape. He was deep in contemplation. He thought about the spiritual collapse of a young woman. He thought about a child playing with a doll. He thought about the ambush, a pile of holy earth, and two nuns chanting a Saxon charm in a church. He thought about a discussion that morning of the nature of crime and punishment. He thought about a murdered man and a chalice and the one certain thing that might connect them. He punched Ralph in his excitement and let out a cry of delight.
“St. Oswald!” he exclaimed. “St. Oswald!”
“What about him?”
“Saxon nuns would revere a Saxon saint.” “Where does that get us?”
“St. Benedict was an Italian.”
“Even I know that, Gervase.”
“It was St. Oswald who saved them from that ambush!” “I like to think that we gave Oswald a spot of help.” “He is the link with Blackwater Hall.”
“Who?”
“St. Oswald! Do you not see? We chose the wrong saint!”
Ralph was more bewildered than ever but Gervase was not able to enlighten him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon came in with satchels of documents and a sheaf of complaints. A crowd was forming outside. The intention had been to examine Hamo FitzCorbucion on his own before bringing his accusers in on the following day to confront him, but word had got around about that morning’s session. Saxon burgesses and Norman barons alike wanted to be there to view Hamo’s disgrace. Gilbert Champeney had also come along in the hopes of being admitted to the proceedings. The pressure to change their original plans and to allow a more public debate was intense.
Brother Simon was against the idea on principle and Canon Hubert was even more determined to keep the self-appointed spectators at bay. Gervase slowly persuaded them by pointing out that the contest between good and evil, which Hubert had set up, deserved the largest possible audience. Hamo FitzCorbucion should be both humiliated and seen to be humiliated by the people over whom he had ridden roughshod for so many years. Canon Hubert had trumpeted the virtues of a visible justice only that morning over breakfast. He should be ready to open the doors to anyone who wished to come in. Ralph Delchard added his support to this argument. They had come to Maldon to clean up the filth of Hamo’s tyranny. The town had a right to watch them do it.
Hubert relented, Brother Simon withdrew his opposition, and the town reeve was given new instructions. The public would be admitted. As the commissioners settled down in their chairs, eager faces came streaming in through the door and the benches were rapidly filled.
Ralph had time for only the briefest exchange with Gervase, who sat next to him.
“Do not leave me hanging in the air!” he said.
“We will talk about it later, Ralph.”
“At least give me some idea. The wrong saint?” “St. Oswald is our man.”
“But why? What is so special about him?”
“His emblem.” “Emblem?”
“Do you know what it is?”
“If you tell me it has a magpie on it, I’ll go berserk!” “No magpies, Ralph, I promise you.”
“Then what?”
“A raven and a ring.”