By the Edge of the Sword E-Book

C.B. Hanley

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 394

Beschreibung

The seventh book in a thrilling series of mediaeval mysteries by C.B Hanley. Christmas, 1218: Conisbrough is shrouded in deep snow and a stranger's body is found frozen to death. The cryptic letter it carries is from Joanna, an old friend of Edwin Weaver's, who is in danger and pleading for his help. Edwin and his friend Martin undertake a perilous winter journey to discover that Joanna stands accused of a heinous crime; if convicted, she will be burned at the stake. A furious Martin is determined to clear Joanna's name even if it means resorting to violence. Edwin must control him while attempting to solve a puzzle he is only seeing at second hand; he knows nothing of any of the locals and can only work with the conflicting stories they tell him. Their vicious accusations and unshakeable belief that Joanna is guilty might result in her being killed by gossip, so Edwin must find out what really happened before it is too late …

Leseprobe

First published by The Mystery Press, 2021

The Mystery Press, an imprint of The History Press

97 St George’s Place

Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© C.B. Hanley, 2021

The right of C.B. Hanley to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9917 5

Typesetting and origination by Typo•glyphix, Burton-on-Trent, DE14 3HE

Printed in Great Britain

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

For M.L.Who is older than he used to be

Many have fallen by the edge of the sword;but not so many as have fallen by the tongue.

Ecclesiasticus, ch.28, v.18

Praise for C.B. Hanley’s Mediaeval Mystery Series

‘[Cast the First Stone is] brilliantly evocative of time and place, but with themes that are bang up to date. C.B. Hanley brings past and present together in an enthralling story.’

A.J. Mackenzie, author of the Hardcastle & Chaytor mysteries

‘The Bloody City is a great read, full of intrigue and murder. Great for readers of Ellis Peters and Lindsey Davis. Hanley weaves a convincing, rich tapestry of life and death in the early 13th century, in all its grandeur and filth. I enjoyed this book immensely!’

Ben Kane, bestselling novelist of the Forgotten Legion trilogy

‘Blatantly heroic and wonderfully readable.’

The Bloody City received a STARRED review in Library Journal

‘The characters are real, the interactions and conversations natural, the tension inbuilt, and it all builds to a genuinely satisfying conclusion both fictionally and historically.’

Review for The Bloody City in www.crimereview.co.uk

‘Whited Sepulchres … struck me as a wonderfully vivid recreation of the early thirteenth century … The solid historical basis lends authenticity to a lively, well-structured story. I enjoyed the plight of amiable and peace-loving Edwin, trapped by his creator in such a warlike time and place.’

Andrew Taylor, winner of the 2009 CWA Diamond Dagger and three-times winner of the CWA Historical Dagger

‘It’s clever. It’s well written. It’s believable. It’s historically accurate. It’s a first-class medieval mystery.’

Review for Whited Sepulchres in www.crimereview.co.uk

‘Brother’s Blood [is] a gift for medievalists everywhere … Hanley really knows her stuff. Her knowledge of life in a Cistercian monastery is impeccable. More please.’

Cassandra Clark, author of the Abbess of Meaux medieval mystery series

Prologue

Christmas Eve, 1218

The world was white and cold and endless.

The heavens and the earth were indistinguishable, frozen hills and valleys stretching out before him until they touched the ice-filled sky. The white blanket that was draped over the countryside might look soft, but the gentle, down-filled appearance was deceptive: the ground was as hard as iron, and the wind had knives in it.

The snow was above his knees as he struggled onwards, hoping he was still on the road. His horse had broken a leg some hours ago, but staying with the animal meant almost certain death; nobody would be out in this weather if they could help it, not at dusk on this holy day of the year – and nobody knew he was here, so there would be no search party. His mission was a secret; she had impressed that upon him before he set off and he had spoken to nobody of it on the way.

The road, if it was the road, now led into a wood. He was surrounded by trees and the swirling wind whipped up the powdery snow into his face, blinding and confusing him. Where was he? Had he turned around? Was he still going in the right direction?

One thought stayed fixed in his mind. Conisbrough. He had to get to Conisbrough because he had to deliver the message. He had to deliver it for her. It was this that kept him ploughing on, as well as the thought that there would be a fire when he got there, and warmth, and human company. Keep holding on to that picture.

But he was so cold. Every time he inhaled, he sucked more icy blades into his chest. His breath came in jagged gasps, like his thoughts.

He hadn’t been able to feel his toes for some time, and now he stumbled as his feet became numb, disconnected from his body. He’d seen that tree before, hadn’t he? Yes, he had – his own footprints were there.

It was hopeless. He had no idea where he was and he could see no smoke, no sign of any village or castle. The forest was silent, he was alone in the world, and it was getting dark. Perhaps it would be better to shelter here for a while, in the lee of this tree, out of the biting wind, maybe try to start a fire? He had flint and steel in his pouch as well as the all-important letter. He fumbled at his belt.

But now his hands wouldn’t work either, and he let his legs give way. Some snow had piled up around the base of the tree, and the drift was soft and oddly welcoming; he allowed himself to sink into its embrace.

And now he was comfortable. He wasn’t cold at all; why had he thought so? He was in a feather bed, covered in soft furs, warm and content as he fell into the sleep from which he would never wake.

Chapter One

Conisbrough, the Feast of St Stephen, 1218

Martin whooped as he urged his horse on to greater speed. To be out in the fresh, clean air and on the hunt was a glorious thing, and the energy grew within him as he outpaced the others. The hunting had been good these last few weeks, and he had been the one to slay the boar whose head had graced the earl’s Christmas table. The thrill of the chase, the danger of the cornered wild animal, the bright, hot, spurting red blood against the snow – he was alive.

He knew he was going too fast, but he didn’t care. He left the others behind, eager to be the first to reach the stag once the baying hounds had caught the scent again. What did he care if they couldn’t keep up? What did he care, indeed, if he should be sent flying and then crashing to earth? If his neck should break? What did he care if his mount tripped—

It was concern for the horse that eventually caused him to pull up a little. Fauvel, the beautiful, powerful, tall dun courser that had been the earl’s gift to him after the events of the previous year at Sandwich, was far too precious to be risked. Besides, they were now entering the woods, so the dangers of low-hanging branches were added to those of the uneven ground. Fauvel shied a little as the light dimmed, and Martin slowed to a walk as he ducked, knocking snow off the branches as he pushed them aside.

As he moved deeper into the dense thicket of trees, the clamour of the rest of the hunt party faded. He could still hear the hounds, but they were away over to his left and the only path in front of him snaked off to the right. He would have to take it for now, but it was no matter – he knew these woods well enough not to lose his way even in the snow. This path would lead down to the stream, where he could turn back to ride alongside it. He cursed himself as he realised that his speed had probably now put him behind the others, as they would have been able to follow the hounds’ change of direction before they reached the trees.

He continued through the cold, white silence and was not far away from where he knew the stream to be when a splash of colour drew his attention. What was that, over there beneath that tree? He hadn’t gone many paces further when he saw that it was a pair of booted legs sticking out from a snowdrift.

Martin dismounted, but with no particular haste – the man was clearly dead, and had probably been there at least a day judging by the sprinkling of snow on the hose and boots, and the greater amount on the upper body which must have fallen off the tree to cover him like a blanket. But which of the villagers would have been out in the forest on Christmas Day? No work was due, and they generally made sure they’d collected all the wood and supplies they might need beforehand so they could stay around the village, the church and their own warm hearths on the day itself.

As he hitched Fauvel’s reins to a branch, Martin heard another rider approaching, feeling the warmth of man and beast steaming in the air before he could actually see them.

It was the earl himself. He pulled up as soon as he saw Martin. ‘What’s the matter? Come off, have you? Horse all right?’

‘Yes, my lord, he’s fine and all is well. I’ve lost the stag, but I’ve found something else.’ He gestured towards the body.

The earl craned his neck to see. ‘Not one of the hunt?’ He continued before Martin could answer. ‘No, been there too long. Well, we can’t leave him here – start digging him out and I’ll summon men to carry him back.’ He had a horn hanging from his belt; he unhooked it and gave a long blast.

Martin knelt and began digging away the snow, half afraid of whom he might find under it. Thankfully he knew it wasn’t Edwin, for he had seen him that very morning. He began to run through in his head which of the other villagers he had passed on his way out to the hunt. But when the face was uncovered, it was one he’d never seen before.

The relief made him sit back on his heels for a moment. ‘A stranger, my lord.’

The earl had not dismounted, but he nudged his courser forward a couple of paces to look down. ‘Well, that’s something at least. Still, he deserves a Christian burial, whoever he is. We’ll have him taken to the church and then the villagers can look at him to see if they recognise him. Some travelling kin, perhaps.’ He seemed about to turn away, then added, ‘When you get back, find Weaver and get him to have a look. I can’t imagine it’s anything other than an accident, but best to be sure in case the sheriff comes nosing.’

‘Very good, my lord.’ Martin finished uncovering the body and stood up, brushing the loose snow from his hands and knees as more of the hunting party arrived to help, and it wasn’t long before he was mounted again, following a crudely fashioned litter on which the corpse had been placed. When they reached the village, he saw the men off in the direction of the church and made his way down the street to Edwin’s cottage.

Edwin felt the joy spread through him in a blaze of warmth. ‘You’re sure?’

Alys nodded, her smile as wide as his own. ‘Yes.’

He could hardly believe in such good fortune. Something would cloud it, surely. ‘I mean, after last time …’

A momentary shadow passed over her face. ‘I know. But this time it’s been longer, and I can feel the quickening.’ She took his hand and placed it on her stomach. He couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, but he was happy to take her word for it. A father. He was going to be a father, and his beautiful wife a mother. They would be a whole family. Together. Could there be any greater bliss, any brighter sunshine, amid the darkness of the winter?

A loud knocking sounded at the door.

Edwin kissed Alys and then gently propelled her towards a stool by the fire. ‘I’ll answer it. Cecily, probably.’

But he knew that it wasn’t his aunt, for she would never pound like that – the door had nearly fallen in. He opened it and was unsurprised to see Martin on the threshold. ‘Come in, come in! Share some ale with us while you warm up by the fire.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Can’t, sorry.’ He glanced over Edwin’s shoulder. ‘My apologies, mistress, but I’m here to take him away for a short while.’ He looked back at Edwin. ‘We’ve found a body.’

Edwin’s heart sank into his stomach as the warmth inside dissipated. Could he not have one day, one hour of unalloyed happiness before something arrived to spoil it?

Alys had heard the words and was now next to him at the door. ‘A body? Who …?’

Edwin could see that Martin wasn’t particularly discomfited. ‘Nobody. Or, that is, nobody we know. A stranger – we found him in the woods so he’s probably just a traveller who got lost. But my lord wants Edwin to look over him just to see that there’s been no foul play.’ He hesitated. ‘You know, in case the sheriff …’

Edwin winced and then realised he’d unthinkingly put his hand to his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, drily, ‘the last thing we need is him turning up.’ He put his hand on Alys’s arm. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Stay here in the warm and I’ll be back soon.’ He shared a look with her, a look about their secret, and he couldn’t stop the smile spreading over his face despite the circumstances. ‘And then we can keep talking.’ He gave her another kiss and an embrace, aware of Martin shuffling behind him but for once unconcerned about it.

He wrapped his cloak about him before stepping out into the cold and following the tall, silent figure up the icy street. Today he refused to feel guilty about being happy. It was a year and a half since Martin had had his heart broken, and Edwin knew that he was jealous of Edwin’s happy marriage, though he tried not to show it. Not jealous of Alys herself, of course, for Martin’s heart still lay with Mistress Joanna, who had lived for many years as a companion to the lord earl’s sister before being sent away for a marriage not of her choosing. It was strange, perhaps, that Martin still pined over her when there were so many other girls who would willingly throw themselves at a tall, strong squire – but then again, Edwin himself could never have loved anyone but Alys once he’d met her, so maybe it wasn’t so surprising after all.

They reached the church to find that Father Ignatius was already praying over the body, his blue hands clasped and steam rising from between his chattering teeth. Brother William, the earl’s clerk, was also present, and he nodded to them as they approached.

Edwin forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. The face that looked up at him from the bier was both peaceful and unknown to him. He glanced enquiringly at the priest and the monk, and they shook their heads. A stranger, then. The clothes were nondescript – not rich, so he probably wasn’t a nobleman, thank the Lord, but not those of a pauper either, nor a runaway serf. A townsman, a trader, a messenger? Ah, wait …

‘Is that a strap across his chest? Under the cloak?’

With Brother William’s help, he removed the cloak and turned the stiff body over. As he had thought, a leather bag had been concealed between the layers of clothing. He prised the strap over the head and passed it to the monk. ‘He must have been on his way to deliver some letters to the lord earl – better take a look.’

While Brother William was opening the bag, Edwin examined the body as best he could. There was no wound, no sign of violence, and the frozen expression was content. He turned to Martin. ‘He looks like he just fell asleep. As far as I can tell, he must have lost his way and died in the cold. Nothing to bother the sheriff about.’

Martin rumbled his assent.

Edwin draped the cloak over the body, covering everything except the face. ‘I suppose he might be from one of my lord’s other castles?’

‘If he is, I’ve never seen him,’ came Martin’s reply. ‘But I can have some of his messengers fetched, if you like, the ones who travel most widely, to see if any of them recognise him.’

‘Yes. Yes, please do – if he can go to his grave with a name, so much the better.’ Edwin turned to Brother William. ‘Anything?’

The monk was puzzled. ‘A few pennies, some bread, flint and steel, but only one letter.’ He held it out. ‘And it’s not for the earl, it’s for Martin.’

Martin was taken aback. ‘Me?’ He took it. ‘It must be from my father, although he usually … Oh no, it’s not. I don’t know who it’s from – I’ve never seen this seal before. How odd.’

He stood gazing at the letter for some moments before Edwin suggested that maybe he should open it.

‘Yes, yes of course.’ He broke the seal and moved to stand near a burning candle.

Edwin watched him as he laboriously made his way through the contents. Martin had learned to read and write when he was a boy, but he hadn’t done much of it since and it was obvious he was struggling. Edwin longed to step forward and offer to read it for him, but he didn’t want to embarrass his friend, and besides, what if it was personal? Some bad news about his family? So, he simply stood watching, his ears filled with the sound of the soothing prayers to which the others had returned, but his eye alert to every change of expression on Martin’s face.

Whatever it was, it didn’t seem like good news. Martin read, read again and ran his finger along some words, all the while becoming paler. It was probably just Edwin’s imagination, or perhaps the candlelight, but it almost seemed as though the hand holding the letter began to shake.

At last Martin looked up. ‘Edwin.’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘Edwin. Can you tell me if this word here says what I think it does? Just to be sure?’ He was pointing at a word on its own at the bottom of the parchment – the name of the sender.

Edwin stepped to look over Martin’s arm. The letter was short and written in a good black ink, but he did not read the contents. Instead, he focused in growing surprise on the name, for there could be no doubt: it said ‘Joanna’.

‘So then,’ said Edwin to Alys a little later, ‘I was going to ask him more about it, but he just snatched it back, said he had to get back to the castle, and left. I think he said he would try to come later if he could get away, but it depends on the lord earl, of course.’

It was getting dark, the short winter day almost over, and they were sitting by the fireside as Alys stirred the pot. Smoked pork in the pottage, in honour of the Christmas season; the house had smelled heavenly since yesterday after the long Advent fast, and there would be dried apples and oatcakes to follow, flavoured with a pinch of Edwin’s favourite cinnamon. Truly, he was blessed.

There had been a time, just over a year ago, when he and Alys had been pressed to live up at the castle – a great step up in status – but they had declined. This was home.

It was also, by now, the centre of Alys’s burgeoning business. A large and complicated loom stood in one corner, at which she spent many hours; when she wasn’t weaving, she was either spinning or supervising the village girls whom she employed to produce the hundreds of yards of thread necessary. Her father had been a cloth merchant, and before she’d moved to Conisbrough to marry Edwin she’d run his shop in the great city of Lincoln. Her expertise was slowly being recognised by the inhabitants of all the villages around and she was often asked for advice.

There had been a time, last year, when the two of them felt that they had hardly a friend in the world, and certainly not in Conisbrough, but Alys had taken on the challenge. Despite what had happened she had been kind and generous to all, mending broken relationships, helping neighbours where she could and paying fair wages to her girls. The final barrier had been broken when she’d reduced a travelling salesman almost to tears by haggling down the price of his fabric on behalf of several village women, and now she received smiles and greetings wherever she went.

Edwin looked at his wife and his home and realised that he was happy.

This time the knock at the door didn’t trouble Edwin, and on opening it he was greeted with the welcome sight of his mother as well as Martin. ‘My lord wanted to play chess with Sir Geoffrey,’ explained Martin, as he took off his cloak and hung it on a peg, ‘and Adam and Hugh are perfectly capable of setting that up without me, so I left them to it.’

‘And I decided that a walk and a chat would be better than a lone evening at my sewing,’ added Mother as she kissed Edwin and bustled forward. ‘Now, my dear, what have you there? Can I help you with anything?’

Edwin was about to follow when Martin put out an arm to keep him by the door. He stooped so he could hiss in Edwin’s ear. ‘I need to talk to you about my letter.’ He hesitated, glancing over at Mother and Alys. ‘It concerns you too, so shall we go outside somewhere? They’ll overhear.’

‘Me?’ Edwin was surprised. What could Mistress Joanna possibly have to say about him? But it was no matter. ‘They’re my family. Whatever it is, they’ll hear it soon enough anyway, so it may as well be now. Besides, I’m not going out in the cold when there’s a good fire here.’

Martin looked uncertain for a moment, but then nodded. ‘All right.’

They moved back towards the hearth. Martin was agitated, pacing up and down before he could be persuaded to sit, at which point he pulled out the letter and spread it on his knee. Then he seemed to change his mind and passed it to Edwin. ‘You read it. Read it out loud so we can all hear. I still don’t know what to think about it.’

Edwin held it up to the light. ‘Martin,’ he read. ‘If it please God I hope this finds you in good health. I am in trouble, and I need your help. I cannot have it written here, but the man who carries this letter will explain all. Come to me at the castle of Brandon in the county of Warwickshire as soon as you get this, and bring Edwin with you if you can. I know this will be difficult to arrange, and I would not ask, but please – there is no one else I can turn to. My life and my immortal soul are at stake. Joanna.’

Edwin looked up at the shocked faces around him.

‘The poor girl,’ said Mother. ‘She must be facing something dreadful to write such a desperate plea.’

‘Yes, but facing what?’ asked Edwin, his mind already working through the possibilities. ‘Brandon castle, in Warwickshire. This must be where she went after her marriage, where her husb—’ He looked at Martin’s face and stopped. ‘Anyway, the trouble can’t be anything to do with him, or why ask you for help? No, it must be something more … personal.’

‘But what?’ asked Alys. She crossed herself. ‘The poor messenger can’t tell you.’

‘And why you, Edwin?’ added Mother.

Edwin thought for a moment. ‘Something has happened. Something bad. And she wants to find out the truth of the matter, for there can be no other reason for her wanting me.’

‘Agreed,’ rumbled Martin. ‘And she must need protection, or why come to me?’ He looked at Edwin with a dark expression. ‘Is someone threatening her? Because if they are, I’ll …’

Edwin put out a hand. ‘Calm down. There’s nothing you – we – can do until we know more. But how shall we find out?’

‘Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course. We’ll go there, wherever it is – Warwickshire is south of here, we go through it when we go to Reigate or Lewes – and we find out. We sort out whatever is bothering her, and I’ll deal with anyone threatening her.’ Martin was on his feet again.

‘But think, Martin. It’s much more complicated than that. How will you explain this to the lord earl? How will you get a leave of absence? I don’t know how far it is, but surely it would take a week or more to get there, and the same back, to say nothing of how long we might be there. And why would he let me go? I serve him – and so do you – so why would he be interested in helping Joanna?’

Martin started to make an angry retort, but Edwin cut him off abruptly. ‘I’m only speaking the truth, hard as it may be for you to hear. And better you should consider it now, before you speak to my lord about it. Now sit down and let’s think.’

‘Think.’ Martin’s tone verged on contempt. ‘We don’t need to think, we need to act. I’ll go to him and show him the letter and ask if I may go. Simple.’

‘And if he says no?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go anyway.’

‘Disobey him? And be expelled from his service? What good would that do?’

‘None. But what choice is there?’ Martin’s agitation was ever more evident. ‘Or maybe I could tell him that I’ve had a letter from my father and it’s a family matter and I need to go.’

Edwin was incredulous. ‘You would lie to the lord earl?’ The fact that Martin would even think of saying such a thing out loud shocked him. His friend’s feelings for Joanna obviously ran even deeper than he thought. ‘It would never work. He would want to see the letter, to know some details. And besides, your father is the lord earl’s liege man – he would write to him, not you, if he wanted to summon you.’

‘Yes, but what else is there? Martin’s voice was raised.

‘Perhaps …’

It was Alys who had spoken, and Edwin looked at her sharply. ‘Do you have an idea?’

Martin was also gazing at her in a kind of desperate hope, less surprised than many other men would have been at the interruption, for he knew that Alys was an unusual woman, and that Edwin valued her counsel.

‘It’s just … I don’t know the lord earl as well as any of you, of course, but perhaps if you were to ask him – telling the truth – but try to find a way in which it would be in his own best interest to have you both go?’

Mother was nodding, and Edwin saw the wisdom of the suggestion. ‘I thank the Lord every day that I married you,’ he said, remembering also their earlier conversation and secretly blessing himself again. ‘Martin?’

Martin rubbed his chin. ‘That could work.’ He held out his hand for the letter and Edwin passed it to him, watching as Martin ran his finger over Joanna’s name. Then he looked up again. ‘But if it doesn’t, then I’m going to find a way to go anyway: I don’t care what you or my lo—what anyone else thinks.’

There was an awkward silence, which Alys broke by asking if they would stay to eat.

This brought Martin to himself again. ‘No – no thank you, mistress, I’ll have to get back to serve at table. My lord will be finishing his chess game by now, or almost.’ He managed a smile, pointing at Edwin’s own rather rough-hewn board and pieces that sat on the table. ‘Games against Sir Geoffrey last a while longer than those against you! He’ll make you play blindfold soon, just to even things up.’

Mother was also declining, and Martin remembered his manners, fetching her cloak. ‘My lady. Let me escort you back – it’s almost full dark.’

They left, Martin taking a brand from the fire to light their way before he ducked under the door lintel.

Silence settled on the cottage. Edwin had more or less got used to his mother being referred to as ‘Lady Anne’ in the year and a half since her marriage to Sir Geoffrey, Conisbrough’s castellan, but he was still sorry to see her go. Her apartment at the castle was much grander than the cottage, of course, but it was austere, and Edwin couldn’t help thinking that she sometimes went back to it with reluctance. But perhaps ‘home’ meant something different to her these days.

Edwin sat at the table, idly pushing at a knight on the chess board while Alys ladled out their hot meal. As she blew on a spoonful of the pottage to cool it, she looked at him directly. ‘So, it seems you’ll be going away again.’

He nodded. ‘If our plan – your plan – works. I’m sorry to do it to you, my love, especially now.’

She put one hand on his, ‘It’s all right. I’ve never met this girl – this lady, I should say – but I do know Martin a little by now, and that’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen him show. It’s clear that he loves her, so you should help.’ She swallowed a mouthful before continuing. ‘Although, if she’s married, there’s going to be no happy end to the tale, even if you can sort out whatever the problem is.’

‘And that’s what I’m worried about,’ said Edwin. ‘Do you remember the last line of the letter? “My life and my immortal soul are at stake.” My immortal soul. I have a feeling that this is very much more serious than Martin might think it is.’

Edwin was due to attend on the earl the following morning. He’d had no further chance for a private talk with Martin, so all he could do was hope that Martin would make his request in as calm a manner as possible, and that he himself, if asked, could weigh in with an opinion on how the earl could benefit by letting them go.

Edwin had seen a mounted messenger passing through the village that morning, so it was no surprise, as he entered the council chamber and took up his position by the wall, to see the earl already in conversation with Sir Geoffrey and Brother William, several letters spread over the table and one in the monk’s hand. Martin was over against the opposite wall and Edwin tried to catch his eye, but Martin was too busy with his own thoughts to notice. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, his normal blank stillness replaced by a fidgeting that was making Adam and Hugh, the earl’s junior squire and page, look at him in surprise and Sir Geoffrey with irritation.

‘Ah, Weaver, good. I’m glad you sorted that business out with no trouble yesterday – natural death in the snow – for I have a new mission for you.’

This was not at all what Edwin had expected. For months now his service to the earl had been peaceful, and he had been hoping it would continue that way. But to be sent away now, just when he wanted to go somewhere else! This time he did meet Martin’s eye, seeing the desperation there, but there was nothing to be done. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, as woodenly as he could.

‘I have received a letter,’ continued the earl, pointing at the parchment Brother William held and oblivious to the thoughts of his underlings, ‘from de Lacy, a man who owes service to me.’

Edwin’s attention was immediately engaged, for he’d had a thorough drilling from Sir Geoffrey over the last year on who was who among the earl’s liege men, and who was related to whom.

‘You remember the girl Joanna, de Lacy’s cousin, who lived here for some while as my sister’s companion? Yes, of course you do. Well, it’s about her.’

‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Strange thing, really,’ continued the earl, flicking his fingers at Hugh for a cup of the wine that was warming by the fire. ‘De Lacy writes that he has received very troubling news that will reflect badly on him and his family, and he requests that I intervene to help resolve the situation.’

Martin really was twitching now, but Edwin tried to ignore it. ‘And is there some way that I can help you in this, my lord?’

‘Yes, I want you to get down there and find out the truth of the matter.’

He looked as though he considered this instruction final, but Edwin was still very much in the dark. ‘If I may, my lord, where should I go? And is there any indication of what the trouble actually is?’

‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ The earl took a sip from his goblet and gestured for Brother William to hand Edwin the letter. ‘You need to go to Brandon in Warwickshire, where the girl now lives, and where she’s being held before any charges are pressed.’

‘Charges, my lord?’

‘Yes, charges. And serious ones, too. It looks very much as though she’s murdered her husband.’

Chapter Two

They had been on the road for days. There had been no new fall of snow since Christmas Day, but there was still plenty of it on the ground and, at first, they had made very slow progress indeed. Once they had reached the wider Great North Road, however, the going had been a little easier and they picked up some speed. Martin, indeed, would have pressed them on faster, but both Edwin and Turold, the senior of the four men who were accompanying them, persuaded him into caution so they would all arrive together and alive.

They had slept each night at an inn, for it was far too cold to camp in comfort. Turold was one of the lord earl’s most trusted messengers, used to riding up and down the country, and he had been assigned to their party in order to guide them; he knew the way to Warwick and Kenilworth, and Brandon was only a few miles from each. He would also be able to ride back to Conisbrough with any urgent message if necessary. Edwin felt much safer having him along, worried that they would lose their way otherwise, and he was particularly grateful for Turold’s knowledge of which inns served the best food and had the fewest fleas in their beds.

It was now just before dawn, and they were saddling up for what should be the last day of their journey; Turold reckoned they should just about reach their destination before dark as long as they met with no further delay on the road. Edwin stamped his feet and rubbed his hands to try to get a bit of life into them, watching as the steam from the breath of men and horses rose to join the smoke from the torches in the inn’s yard.

He frowned as he saw Martin giving Lambert, the youngest of the party, a clip round the ear for not holding his stirrup properly and wondered if he should speak to him about it later. Lambert was a raw recruit to the garrison, admittedly, and clumsy with it, but he was trying hard, and Edwin could see that some of his ineptitude stemmed from nervousness: like many of the boys around Conisbrough, he held the earl’s huge senior squire in awe. Martin’s continual exasperation with him wasn’t helping, and Lambert had started ducking every time Martin came near him, his clumsiness only increasing.

Martin’s impatience, meanwhile, had grown with every hour they’d spent on the road, every mile they’d drawn closer to their destination. Edwin was going to have to come up with some strategy to keep him under control when they got there; no easy task, but if Martin’s emotions boiled up too far it would jeopardise their mission.

Edwin’s turn to mount came and he did so, swinging into the saddle with an ease that gave him continual joy after the difficulties he’d experienced when first learning. These days he could ride for a whole day and be no more than stiff or cold when it ended, rather than in agony.

The sun was just rising as they left the inn and made their way back to the road. The last few days had been so dull and overcast that it hardly felt like daytime at all, but Edwin thought, as he looked at the sky, that the sun might burn through the cloud and shine a little more brightly today. That would be nice; the endless grey had only emphasised Martin’s agitation, which in turn had spread to the men. Edwin himself was relatively cheerful, despite the circumstances, and he decided to put into action the first part of a plan to keep Martin’s mind off what they might encounter when they got to Brandon.

Some general chat about horses was always a good place to start. It was a subject in which Edwin had no interest at all, outside of being able to travel from one place to another faster than on foot, but Martin could wax lyrical about all things equine for hours. The ploy was a successful one, and it led on to much praise of Fauvel, Martin’s own precious mount, which Edwin listened to with pleasure but not much attention. When the subject turned to Fauvel’s having been a gift from the earl, however, Edwin felt a nudge was needed to steer the conversation away from any potential references to the great battle at Sandwich; he didn’t want Martin’s mind to turn to fighting. He attempted, therefore, to keep to the theme of gifts.

‘Your father sends you presents from time to time, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes; he’s very pleased that I’m getting on well in the lord earl’s service.’

‘But you don’t see your family very often, do you?’

‘No – my father wants me to stay with the earl as much as possible as it’ll be good for my future. It doesn’t bother me much, mind: I don’t really like his wife, and she was glad to see the back of me so she could fill the place with her own brood.’

Martin was not normally one to engage in gossip or chit-chat, so this was new information to Edwin. ‘His wife isn’t your mother?’

‘No – she died when I was born, God rest her soul, and he later married again. They have half a dozen children by now, but all much younger than me – the eldest would be about ten, I suppose.’

‘But you’re still your father’s heir? You’ll inherit his lands?’

Martin laughed, a welcome sound that Edwin hadn’t heard for some while. ‘It’s only two manors – we’re not proper nobility. The lord earl only took me into his service as my father did him some kind of favour years ago, which is why he’s so keen for me to get on. I can further our family’s interests, apparently, although why I’d want to do that for the sake of the little brats I don’t know.’

‘Well, an inheritance is something to look forward to, anyway,’ said Edwin, aiming to keep the conversation light.

‘Not for a long while, though,’ was the reply. ‘My father’s only fifteen years older than me.’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t I ever tell you? I suppose I didn’t. It’s simple enough – two men with neighbouring manors who wanted to unite them, and my grandfather keen to get his hands on the other as his friend only had one daughter, his heiress. So, they married their children off, my father just turned fifteen and my mother a year younger. They couldn’t claim the marriage was valid until they’d lain together, so they did, and I was the result.’

‘Wait – your mother was only fourteen when she bore you?’

‘Yes.’ Martin’s voice assumed a less jaunty tone. ‘And it killed her.’ He paused. ‘I killed her.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Martin sighed. ‘No, not my “fault” exactly, but the fact remains that I was born and she died.’

The conversation had taken a direction that Edwin was keen to avoid, and needed to be turned, but he couldn’t continue it; he was too busy contemplating the terror that Alys, too, might die in childbirth. It certainly wasn’t uncommon – the churchyard in Conisbrough was full of women who’d perished during or after their labour. He tried to tell himself that Alys had some few advantages. She was seventeen rather than fourteen, a better age for childbearing albeit one that was relatively young by the standards of the village, where couples normally waited to marry until they were on a firmer financial footing. She was healthy and she ate well. And finally, Edwin wasn’t quite sure how these things worked, but he himself was barely average height, so did that mean they’d have a small baby? That would make things safer.

The conversation had ceased completely. Edwin was now not in the mood for light-hearted chat, and Martin was always happy to ride in silence.

As they went on, Edwin became conscious of a new problem. The sun was indeed shining brightly today, but with the world still blanketed in snow the glare of the dazzling whiteness in all directions was hurting his eyes and giving him a headache. Flashes of light and spots were starting to appear. He pulled his hood further forward to try to shield his face as much as possible, but it was no good. By the time they stopped at midday to rest the horses his head was pounding and he was feeling nauseous.

As they resumed their journey, Edwin tried hard to concentrate on what he would be facing when they arrived. He had so little information to go on that it was almost impossible to know what they were walking into: all he knew from the earl was that Joanna was accused of murdering her husband – who had been called Sir Nicholas de Verdon – and all he could glean from her letter to Martin was that she wanted their help to exonerate herself. And no wonder: all murderers were executed, but for a woman to kill her lord and master was also petty treason, meaning that the penalty was to be burned at the stake, a particularly horrific and agonising end to face.

The main problem that Edwin could foresee at the moment – apart from the obvious one of finding out what had actually happened – was the conflicting motives he would have to deal with. Martin, of course, was already convinced that Joanna was innocent, and that they were on their way to prove that and rescue her. The lord earl, however, had taken Edwin to one side before he left and given him some different and rather troubling instructions. Edwin himself was trying to keep an open mind until he knew more: he liked Joanna, and in his heart he wanted to prove her innocent, but he could feel at the back of his mind – as Martin clearly could not – that there might be an explanation that none of them wanted. Women were often abused by their husbands: what if this turned out to be the case, and what if Joanna, driven beyond endurance, really had killed him? How in the Lord’s name would he reconcile carrying out the earl’s orders with Martin’s probable actions?

Edwin shook his head, which was by now not so much pounding as being drilled and stabbed. The too-bright glare was still all around him, and the tell-tale splintering of the light had started. He needed it to stop. He couldn’t afford for this to happen to him now; he had to stay vigilant so that their arrival at the castle went the way it needed to. Think. What were they to do? He couldn’t remember. Concentrate. Yes.

They had agreed that they would not immediately announce that they had been sent by the lord earl to investigate; this would only make the culprit wary, and it might also antagonise the local sheriff. Instead, they would say that they were in Earl Warenne’s service, which would guarantee them hospitality, and that Martin was in charge of a party conveying Edwin to take up a position as steward in one of his castles further south. Then, once they were inside and Edwin could find out a little more about what was going on and make contact with the sheriff or his representative, they would take it from there. The earl had given Edwin so much free rein (‘remember my orders, and do whatever you have to do, on my authority’) that he could organise everything himself, which in one respect was comforting but in another was terrifying.

The splintering was getting worse, and the nausea was increasing. It was a real effort not to vomit. But the piercing light just wouldn’t go away, stabbing constantly into his eyes and brain. He had to stave it off, had to keep going, for there was one other important thing. More than important: crucial. And it was that he had to control Martin. If they arrived and Martin started off belligerently – or, worse, if he showed any hint of knowing Joanna already – their plans would come crashing down. He, Edwin, had to stay awake, conscious and alert to manage the critical first moments of their arrival. He had to. He would.

The pain in his head got too much. Edwin’s eyes closed and he slipped from the horse.

Martin swore as he saw Edwin hit the ground. He called the others to a halt, dismounted, threw his reins at Lambert and ran over. What was Edwin playing at? He hadn’t fallen off a horse in ages.

He had a rough comment on the tip of his tongue, but Edwin wasn’t picking himself up and dusting himself off; he was lying still in the snow.

Fear began to prickle along Martin’s spine. ‘Edwin?’ He shook his friend. ‘Edwin!’