“I thought you would condemn me for disobedience,” she said. “Why should I do that, my lady?”
“A father has a right to choose my husband.” “You have a right to be consulted.”
“He does not see it that way.”
“No,” agreed Oslac, “I imagine that he does not. Your father is so used to making decisions that he will not stand for any objection to them. You and he have very different ideas about marriage. My lord, Hamo, is selecting a husband so that he can join family to family and not heart to heart.”
“Miles Champeney is the man I want.”
“I marvel that the two of you managed to get so far.” “We have exchanged vows.”
“True love thrives on adversity.”
They were in Matilda’s chamber at the top of the house. Oslac had been taken along the gallery by a servant. The guard had been removed from outside but the door was still locked and the priest soon understood why. Having come to console Matilda over the death of her brother, he found her mounting the loss of the man she loved. He was shocked to hear of her incarceration in her own home and of the brutal treatment of Miles Champeney. It was a situation in which he felt he ought to offer practical assistance.
A shout took them both to the window. Down in the courtyard, Hamo FitzCorbucion had mounted his white destrier and pulled out his sword. He was wearing full armour and looked a most striking figure. Jocelyn was with him and so was Fulk the Steward but they were lost in the armed escort. Hamo was bristling. If the commissioners dared to call him before them, he intended to arrive at the hall with forty knights at his heels in a display of naked force. The visit to Coutances had not just produced a potential son-in-law. It had rekindled the hot blood that ran in his veins. Hamo envied the chaos of Normandy where barons like himself built castles without license and conducted their private wars unimpeded. That was the spirit that was needed in England. He would answer to no man and bend the knee to no king. With another loud yell, he led the full troop out of the courtyard and towards the town. Victory was assured.
Matilda watched them go, then stayed at the window for a few minutes. When she turned to Oslac, her eyes were moist. “You must think me very callous,” she said.
“Why?”
“My brother lies in the churchyard and all that I can do is to talk about myself.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “But I do care about Guy. He had many faults but he did not deserve such a hideous death. I have been ashamed, Father Oslac. I should be weeping for a brother’s death and praying for his soul. I should be hoping that they will soon catch his murderer.”
“And do you hope that, my lady?”
She shrugged. “I do and I do not.”
“Your mind is too full of Miles Champeney.” “Father threw him into the dungeon!”
“It was an unkind way to welcome a suitor,” said Oslac with mild irony, “but it is not altogether unusual. Fathers often disapprove of the men whom their daughters favour as husbands. They may not all go to the extent of flinging an unwanted son-in-law into a cell, but they can make their opposition very clear.” He gave a nostalgic smile. “I know that to my cost.”
“You?”
“I was young once, my lady.” “Of course.”
“And even a priest may fall in love.”
“I have met your wife. She is a charming woman.”
“Her father did not think me a very charming man,” he said. “In fact, he found me unsuitable in every way and made no bones about telling me so to my face. He swore that he would not let his daughter marry beneath her. His opinion of priests was not high. It was a trying time for us.”
“Yet the marriage went ahead.” “Eventually.”
“How?”
“It is not for me to put ideas into your head, my lady.” “Ideas?”
He studied her for a moment. “You are right to reproach yourself,” he said seriously. “It is only fitting that you should grieve for a brother who has passed away. I think it might help if you were to visit the churchyard and pay your respects at his grave.”
“But Father will not allow me out of this house.” “He is not here to enforce that decree.”
“There was a guard outside my door.”
“He is not there now,” said Oslac. “You watched the troop ride out. My lord, Hamo has taken all his men-at-arms with him.”
“There are still servants in the house.”
“A lady may command a servant.”
“What if they try to stop me?”
“Tell them that I am escorting you to the church. They would not dare to stand in the way of a priest, would they?” His eyes twinkled. “The decision must be yours, my lady.”
The shire hall was now so full that latecomers had to stand pressed against the walls. Ralph Delchard’s men-at-arms could barely find room for themselves at the rear of the building. Up in the rafters, Wistan could hear the noisy jostling and feel the sense of expecta-tion. The whole of Maldon seemed to have come along to witness the encounter but one of the disputants had failed to turn up. Was Hamo FitzCorbucion scorning the summons of royal commissioners? If he did not come, did they have the means to compel him? Gervase Bret’s acuity and Canon Hubert’s gravitas had impressed all the witnesses who had appeared before them and they had also admired Ralph Delchard’s brisk authority. But none of these things could be brought into play if the lord of the manor of Blackwater ignored their warrant. As the appointed time came and went, murmurs of doubt began to swell. The summons was being spurned.
Then the door of the hall was thrown open. Every head turned and every eye expected to see Hamo FitzCorbucion come storming in but the spindly character who pushed a way past the guards was Tovild the Haunted. Carrying a spear and wearing his mottled armour, the old man gazed around in wonderment. He had not gone down to the bank of the river to quote his poem that morning. With the instincts of a true warrior, he knew that the real Battle of Maldon was being fought in the shire hall. The taut silence gave way to laughter and the mockery soon came. Tovild was a figure of fun to Saxons and Normans alike and they taunted him happily, urging him to spear a few Vikings for them by way of entertainment. The commotion was quickly smothered beneath a louder and more menacing noise. A large troop of men could be heard cantering towards the hall and dozens of hooves clacked on the hard surface of High Street as the knights came to a halt.
This time Hamo FitzCorbucion did enter. Four men-at-arms came first to clear a way roughly through the crowd. Hamo walked after them like a conquering hero walking in triumph through a vanquished territory. Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and Fulk the Steward brought up the rear, each bearing a sheaf of documents. Seats had been left vacant in the front row and the newcomers settled into them with an arrogance borne of years of unchecked power. Hamo dismissed his soldiers with a flick of the fingers and then reached up to remove his gleaming helm before handing it to Jocelyn. He looked at each of the four men who sat in judgement behind the table and found nothing to trouble him.
He glared at them with total disdain.
“You sent for me, sirs,” he growled, “and I have come.” “We sent for Hamo FitzCorbucion,” said Ralph.
“I am he!”
“What proof do we have of that?” “Every man here will know me!” “We do not.”
“I am the lord of the manor of Blackwater!”
“Then why do you act like a renegade baron?” challenged Ralph. “Why do you arrive here with a troop of men and force your way in? Why do you appear before us in armour? Why do you try to threaten us with the trappings of your power and to pervert the course of justice?” His voice crackled with sarcasm. “We recognise a lord by his demeanour. We look for dignity and a natural authority. We expect an honourable man. When you come charging in here like this, all that we see is a marauding soldier.”
Hamo leapt up. “I am hunting my son’s killer!” “You will not find him here.”
“Do not provoke me, sir!” “Resume your seat.”