Give Up the Dead E-Book

C.B. Hanley

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Mediaeval Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 402

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

'And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them; and they were judged every man according to their works' Book of Revelation, 20:131217: Commoner-turned-earl's-man Edwin Weaver joins the earl's army as it marches for the Kent coast to defend the realm against an invading French fleet. But when a series of accidents puts the earl's life in danger, he soon realises that the enemy is closer at hand. Before he can solve the mystery, however, Edwin finds he must face a double horror: not only a bloody battle, but one that will take place on the high seas. As the bodies pile up, Edwin discovers that it is not just the French who are trying to kill him . . . The fifth book in a thrilling series of mediaeval mysteries by C.B. Hanley.

Leseprobe

For A.G., who is even moreaccident-prone than I am.

First published by The Mystery Press, 2018

The Mystery Press, an imprint of The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© C.B. Hanley, 2018

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 8942 8

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed in Great Britain

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

And the sea gave up the dead which werein it; and death and hell delivered up thedead which were in them; and they werejudged every man according to their works.

Revelation, ch.20, v.13

Praise for C.B. Hanley'sMediaeval Mystery Series

‘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

‘British author Hanley’s enjoyable fourth medieval whodunit will appeal to Ellis Peters fans.’

Review for Brother’s Blood in Publishers Weekly Online

The Battle of Sandwich, 24 August 1217

Chapter One

The Thames Valley, August 1217

Edwin tried to hold his breath and avert his eyes, but it was no good; the devastation was all around them, the stench of burning was everywhere, and it had been going on for miles. Indeed, it seemed to be getting worse the further they rode. It was supposed to be the start of the harvest season, but he doubted very much if anything would be gleaned from these scorched fields or stored in the ruined barns.

They were even now passing through the remains of a village, the abandoned roofless houses accusing the interlopers with their charred and blackened beams. Towards the centre of the settlement there was some activity: repairs had been attempted to a number of cottages, a few vegetables straggled in gardens, and wary, sunken eyes peered out from windows. One or two children, bolder than their elders, approached the column of riders and held their hands out to beg. They were ragged and hollow-cheeked, and Edwin felt nothing but pity for them. This could have been his own village of Conisbrough: families settled in their homes around the church and the green, surrounded by fields of crops to feed them. The war had not reached far enough north to touch his home, for which he thanked God every day, but these people had suffered through no fault of their own. He began to reach for the purse at his belt.

A large hand fell on his wrist. ‘Don’t.’

Edwin looked across at Brother William, who rode beside him. ‘But —’

The grip tightened as the monk spoke under his breath. ‘Do it once and you’ll be hounded, overwhelmed. You can’t help all of them, and there’s going to be plenty more like this, and worse, before we get to where we’re going.’

Edwin knew he wouldn’t be able to move his arm unless Brother William let go of it, so he nodded and, released, grabbed his reins again. Too hard and too suddenly, as it turned out: the horse didn’t like it and he had to give all his attention to controlling the animal for a few moments. It had been the most docile mount they could find in the lord earl’s stables at Conisbrough – the same one he’d ridden to Roche and back a couple of weeks previously – and he was certainly a better rider now than he’d been a few months ago, but being in the saddle all day every day was both tiring and difficult. By the time he’d regained control of the horse, they had left the children behind. He sighed and hoped that someone further down the long column might help them out.

It was unlikely, he knew, for they were not a light-hearted group out riding for pleasure but an army, heading to war, with compassion in short supply. They were stretched for some way along the road: the scouts and some lightly armoured mounted sergeants rode at the front, followed by the earl himself, together with his knights and lords and the higher-ranking members of his household; then those who were of lesser importance but still mounted, including Edwin and his companion Brother William, the earl’s clerk. Behind them came the massed ranks of those who walked – foot soldiers, archers and servants of various types – and then the long skein of baggage and supply carts. Finally, a further group of armed riders ensured that the rumbling wagons didn’t fall too far behind, and guarded them from any attack from the rear. The villagers hiding in the ruins of their houses would have to wait a good long time for their road to be clear again, for the column could only move at the pace of the slow and heavy carts. That was some consolation to Edwin, at least. If he’d had to ride quickly as well as constantly he wasn’t sure what shape he’d be in by now.

Their group would eventually get even larger, as they were on their way to meet with two other earls, friends and allies of Edwin’s Lord William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey; they were also picking up more of the earl’s own retainers as they went, from his estates that were seemingly scattered all over the kingdom. Then they would all head to the Kent coast. Edwin was a bit hazy on the details after that, but he did know that they were expecting to fight a great battle: Louis of France, son of the French king, who held most of the south and south-east of England, was having reinforcements sent across the sea. Once they landed, his host would be large enough to restart the war that had stalled after the engagement at Lincoln, and England would be devastated anew.

Thinking of Lincoln made Edwin shiver, despite the heat of the day. He had been there; he had seen the chaos and the blood and the death, and he never wanted to see it again. And yet here he was, riding helplessly towards more of the same, or possibly worse. He wasn’t cut out for this.

Brother William broke into his gloomy silence.

‘So, tell me again about your wedding. I would have liked to attend, to give you my best wishes and to see your pretty wife.’

He had hit on the one subject that could make Edwin happier. His wife. He had a wife. He was a married man. He could still hardly believe any of it – that he was wed at all, that Alys had come back to him when he thought she was lost, or that the most wonderful girl in all the world had somehow thought him worthy and had agreed to marry him. He felt the tension across his shoulders lessening, his heart lifting, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, as he recalled it all and the words tumbled out. Brother William had heard it before, but neither of them cared. The joy of his friends and family, the celebration in the village, the scent of the flowers in her hair …

He came to himself and realised he was still plodding ahead alongside Brother William, in the middle of a blissful daydream. How long was it since he’d stopped talking? How far had they ridden? He turned awkwardly in his saddle to see that they had left the village far behind. His companion seemed to be content with the silence, now he had heard the story of the wedding for perhaps the fifth or sixth time, so Edwin let himself sink back into his reverie as the surroundings washed past him. Were those a few green shoots appearing amid the blackened undergrowth?

It wasn’t long before they came to another village – this fertile southern part of the country was more densely populated than the hilly north – which was in a similar state to the last one. No, worse: here the smell of burning was more recent, and the churchyard as they passed it held many fresh-dug graves as well as another halfdozen shrouded forms waiting their turn on the ground. Three of them were tiny, and Edwin found that the sight of them was enough to raise in him a feeling he hadn’t yet experienced during the long journey: anger.

He turned to Brother William. ‘If this is what Louis has been doing to England, perhaps it’s better that we fight him. He needs to be driven out!’ The unusual ferocity of his voice surprised him, and he wondered why the monk was shaking his head. ‘What?’

‘Ah, Edwin, you haven’t seen much of war, have you? These lands belong – or used to belong, I’m not sure how it works when there’s supposedly two kings in the country – to one of the earls who is supporting Louis, and this devastation was caused by the other side. King John burned it all last year, and before they’d had the chance to recover, the lord regent and his men swept through again a couple of months ago.’

Edwin could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘The king and the regent did this to their own people?’ He would never understand these nobles, not if he lived to be sixty.

Brother William shrugged. ‘They needed money and supplies, and where else could they get them from? They weren’t going to raid the lands of the earls on their own side, were they?’

‘But the people here – they have no say in which side their lord supports. Why should they have to suffer?’ Edwin felt even more angry than he had been before, although he couldn’t now work out against whom, or what he should do about it. He had no target, no outlet for his rage, and the frustration boiled inside him.

He looked again at the monk, his white robe dusty from the journey, and his eyes betraying all he’d seen before he took the cowl. ‘You’re going to tell me that it’s war, aren’t you, and that this is the way of it.’ Brother William opened his mouth but Edwin cut him off before he could speak. ‘Well, that doesn’t make it right.’

He’d spoken more forcibly than he intended, but Brother William evidently didn’t want to start an argument. He merely replied, peaceably, ‘I didn’t say it was. Pray for the Lord to help these people, because we can’t and nobody else will. And pray for a swift end to the war.’

They rode on in silence.

Martin was enjoying the open space of the journey. The road ahead and the fields and woods laid out on either side were in marked contrast to the constricting, suffocating walls of the abbey where he’d spent the week before they set out. In fact, they’d been there less than a week, hadn’t they? It felt like much longer, time seeming to stretch out and stand still while they were there. Dear Lord, but how could anyone want to spend their lives like that? It was incomprehensible.

He was riding just behind the earl, alert in case he should be needed for anything, but at the same time daydreaming about how he was going to prove himself in battle, earn fame and renown, take another step towards his knighthood, be awarded money or lands … and the first thing he would do would be to buy himself a horse that was actually big enough. He was riding the roan courser that was the tallest the Conisbrough stable afforded, and which had gradually been recognised as his personal mount for that very reason, but his legs still dangled. Nonetheless, they were used to each other and he was comfortable in the saddle as the day wore on.

He wasn’t quite sure where they were now, although it was somewhere south of the Thames. They had originally been travelling on the main road that they always used when the earl rode to his southern lands – the one that ran from York to London – but London and its environs were in Louis’s hands, so they’d turned off at St Albans and were now making a wide circle around the capital. There had been a day’s delay while the host, bit by bit, crossed the Thames at Wallingford, but they had made steady progress since then. Martin still thought it was a bit slow, personally – he reckoned they’d only made about ten miles so far today – but Humphrey, the earl’s new marshal who was in charge of the travel arrangements, seemed satisfied. Fortunately, the distance they covered each day, or the planning for the next, wasn’t Martin’s problem to worry about. He actually felt rather carefree as they went along, looking forward to a great gathering of armed men and the chance to prove himself, enjoying the fact that Adam, the junior squire, didn’t seem to feel the need to talk endlessly as they rode, and safe in the knowledge that he wasn’t in charge of anything except keeping the earl comfortable and supplied with everything he wanted – and he’d been doing that most of his life.

As the sun grew lower behind them Martin’s mind started to turn to where and when they might halt and make camp. They’d passed through a few villages during the afternoon, but they were poor places where the people didn’t look like they took much care of their surroundings – had they no pride? – and none of them had afforded anything even approaching a decent inn. Probably they would camp in open ground, which would be preferable anyway as far as Martin was concerned.

Eventually a process of to-ing and fro-ing between Humphrey, the lord earl and some of his knights who travelled this road more often resulted in the halt being called. It was still light, and a smaller group might have pressed on for another hour or so, but they’d have to wait for the baggage carts to catch up, and then allow time to erect the tents before it was dark. Martin stretched, aware that he’d been dozing in his saddle for a while, and looked about him. It was a good spot: a flattish area – always better for putting up tents and particularly for struggling with the earl’s pavilion, which was large and unwieldy – but with a slight rise off to the east which would allow for guards to be posted with a good view around them, and a gentle slope down to a stream that would afford fresh water.

He whistled as he dismounted, handed his reins to Adam and went straight over to his lord to see if he had any immediate instructions. Later he’d stretch his muscles hauling on ropes to help the men set up the earl’s camp, check that the horses had been properly picketed, and there might even be time for a bit of sparring practice before it got completely dark. All was right with the world.

Edwin heaved a sigh of relief as word reached them and the column ground to a halt. With aching slowness he eased himself down from the back of his mount, holding on to the saddle and stamping his feet a few times to get the feeling back into his legs. Brother William had likewise dismounted and was stroking his horse’s nose. He took his pack down from the animal’s back and swung it over his shoulder, the stout cudgel he carried everywhere narrowly missing Edwin’s head.

Brother William patted the horse again. ‘I shouldn’t really be riding such a fine mount, of course – we monks are only supposed to make use of mules. But if I find the man who decided that that would make me too slow, and let me ride a courser once more, I will bless him all his days.’

Edwin managed a tired smile. Brother William looked as fresh as he had done when they set out this morning, while he felt like his limbs were all made of lead.

The monk was sympathetic to his weakness. ‘Here, pass me your reins, and I’ll go and picket them both. You sit down.’

Edwin shook his head at the proffered hand. ‘Sitting down is the last thing I want to do, believe me. Come, I’ll take them both, seeing as I’m going. And you’ll be much more use than me at …’ he gestured vaguely, ‘helping to set things up.’

‘Very well.’

Both sets of reins in hand, trying not to tangle them up, Edwin set off behind all the other men who were leading horses. He stumbled around the piles of fresh manure as he went – he might be tired but he didn’t want the tent to stink all night – and followed the crowd. There would be a picket somewhere. Yes, there it was. Men more experienced than he, old campaigners, knew how to organise such matters, and if there was one thing Edwin knew about the nobility, it was that they took great care of their horses. It was no surprise that their area was the first part of the camp to be sorted out each night.

He waited his turn as various squires dealt with some very finelooking animals indeed, nodding at Adam when he saw him. His and Brother William’s horse stood patiently after another long day’s trek – did horses get bored? – and Edwin told them that the wait would not be long now. He risked patting his own mount on the nose.

When he reached the picket he concentrated with extreme care as he tied the reins around the fence exactly as he had been taught. If anyone was going to be humiliated by his horse getting loose overnight, it was not going to be Edwin.

Similar attentiveness was being displayed by the small figure in the place next along from him, and Edwin recognised him as he turned. ‘Peter?’

The boy jumped at being addressed by name. But then he saw who it was, relaxed a little and nodded. ‘Edwin.’ He scooped up an armful of hay from the stack someone had placed nearby and put it in front of the animal he was tending. Then he reached into the bag he was carrying, rummaged around and dug out a brush. ‘Sir Roger trusts me to see to his horse every night now. On my own.’

His pride was so evident that Edwin felt himself smiling despite his exhaustion. ‘You serve him very well.’ He looked more closely and saw that, in the few weeks since he had last seen the boy at midsummer, his cheeks had filled out and the tunic no longer looked quite so oversized. And he hadn’t fled when Edwin had spoken to him. He was a different child from the starving, terrified waif he’d known in Conisbrough.

Once they had completed their tasks, they turned to walk back to the main camp, now with tents mushrooming everywhere and the smoke from cooking fires drifting into the evening sky. They threaded their way through groups of men, piles of baggage and webs of tent ropes until their ways parted.

Peter squinted up at him. ‘Are you coming to see Sir Roger?’

He certainly wouldn’t mind the calming presence of the young knight, so it was with some regret that Edwin shook his head. ‘I need to go and see if my lord the earl needs me for anything. But please, do give Sir Roger my greetings and say I will be glad to speak with him later if he has leisure.’

Peter stared straight ahead of him for a moment, his brow furrowing, and Edwin knew that his message would be passed on word for word. He gave the boy an affectionate pat and turned away.

The earl’s pavilion was easily recognisable among the smaller, plainer tents of the camp. Fortunately, Edwin had been at the picket long enough for it to have been set up in his absence, so nobody had asked him to help and then sworn at him for getting in the way. The earl was currently sitting just outside it on a folding chair, sipping wine while his servants hurried in and out with mats, hangings, wooden kists, furs, blankets and the pieces of the bed ready to assemble. They were being directed by Humphrey, and Edwin was struck once more by the quiet and efficient way in which he went about his business – so different from the shrill self-importance of his predecessor. May he rest in peace, he added to himself.

Martin was attending the earl, as was Brother William, who was breaking the seal on a letter as he spoke. ‘From the Earl of Salisbury, my lord.’ Edwin took up an unobtrusive place nearby, hovering in case he was needed.

The earl waved for his clerk to continue as he finished the wine and held the cup out to Martin for a refill.

‘The lord earl sends his greetings, et cetera,’ said Brother William, as he scanned down the parchment. ‘He has sent his messenger on ahead … prays you may give him credence … he expects to be with you here at or just after nightfall.’

The earl grunted. ‘Good. That will give us some time to catch up tonight before we get any further around London.’

Edwin tried to dredge up the correct earl from his memory, recalling his recent lessons with Sir Geoffrey; the Conisbrough castellan had been drilling him over the summer in the names, devices and relationships of the higher nobility. He was determined that Edwin should not make a fool of himself now that he was in the earl’s service, for if it became known that Edwin was from Conisbrough then any signs of stupidity or ignorance would reflect badly on him. No, that wasn’t quite fair, thought Edwin. It was part of it, to be sure, but Sir Geoffrey had been a lifelong friend of Father’s, and Edwin was sure that part of the old knight wanted Edwin to do well for his own sake too.

Anyway, Salisbury. That was one of the easier ones: he was the young king’s uncle, an illegitimate brother of old King John. Edwin had never seen him but he knew him to be around fifty years of age, an experienced military campaigner and a long-time ally of the earl. Oh, and he was called William, of course; no surprise there, as half of the realm’s earls and lords shared the same name. And his device was … ah. Edwin tried to picture the colourful rolls Sir Geoffrey had shown him. Something to do with lions?

Belatedly he became aware that the earl was summoning him. ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Was Sir Hugh expected today?’

‘No, my lord – tomorrow.’

The earl sighed. ‘Shame. Still …’ he drummed his fingers on the arm of the folding chair. ‘Roger is here, I know. Go and find him and bring him here.’

‘At once, my lord.’

Edwin was halfway through his bow when Humphrey appeared at the earl’s side to tell him that all was ready within. The earl nodded, stood, and disappeared inside the brightly coloured walls of the pavilion as Edwin straightened.

The smell of many cooking fires assailed Edwin’s nostrils as he made his way through the camp. He reached the point where he had left Peter and then followed in the direction he thought the boy had taken. Somewhere around here, surely? Yes, there he was. That halo of bright blond hair was unmissable, even at dusk.

Sir Roger was sitting on a low stool outside a plain tent that had been patched more than once. His men – just ten archers, no sergeants – lounged around in a circle, while Peter sat cross-legged, polishing a sword that was already so bright he could see his face in it.

‘Edwin!’The knight stood, a welcoming hand outstretched. ‘Peter said you might stop by.’ He smiled down at the boy. ‘And as you see, I am “at leisure”. Please, sit.’ He indicated the one stool.

Edwin took his hand with genuine pleasure. ‘Sir Roger. Thank you. But I’m afraid I haven’t come to talk – the lord earl wishes to see you.’

‘Very well. Will you show me the way?’

Peter, alert to his lord’s every move, had already stowed the sword back in the tent and was now hovering a little uncertainly.

Sir Roger looked down at him. ‘I think I can manage without you. There are plenty of other boys around the place – why don’t you go and play for a while?’

Peter’s face lit up and he scampered off. Sir Roger caught the eye of one of his men and gestured with his head at the small departing back.

‘I’ll keep an eye out for him, my lord, never fear.’

Sir Roger nodded as he turned back to Edwin. ‘He gets nervous around too many people, and especially the lord earl.’

As they made their way back through the maze of the camp, Edwin reflected that Peter wasn’t the only one.

Martin sighed as he finally pushed the bowl away from him and then stretched his arms out until his shoulders cracked. ‘Ah, that’s better.’

Adam, who had finished his meal long since, gave him a brief smile before returning his attention to the chessboard. His hand hesitated and hovered over several pieces before he prodded his queen forward a couple of spaces.

Edwin, who was his opponent, looked up. ‘I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as you.’ He flicked a knight sideways and took one of Adam’s bishops almost absent-mindedly.

‘Well, there’s a lot of me to fill.’ Martin stood and then cursed as he knocked his head on one of the horizontal tent poles. He rubbed the sore spot and ducked as he moved over to them. ‘Who’s winning?’

‘Who do you think?’ replied Adam, as near to being irritable as he ever was.

Martin clapped him on the back. ‘Never mind.’ He’d been taught the basics of chess once, but he was so hopeless at it that nobody had minded when he gave it up. But the earl was very keen, as was Sir Geoffrey, and it annoyed him when he couldn’t find a decent opponent away from Conisbrough. At his order Adam had been learning for several months, and he was now considered reasonably competent although nowhere near the earl’s standard. Edwin had taken up the game a week ago, on the first evening of their march. He’d lost to Adam the first two nights, drawn a stalemate the third, and won every game since, taking less and less time about it each evening. Martin chuckled at Adam’s frustration and turned away to the task he’d been looking forward to all day.

The bag was exactly where he’d left it; he hadn’t trusted anyone else to unpack it from the baggage cart. He untied the string and then reached inside to remove the contents, pulling it out and then unwrapping the protective linen with reverence. And there it was, in all its glory. His new great helm, a reward from the earl for his recent services and a surprise gift presented to him just as they had left Conisbrough. The very latest in style, with a round flat top and plate all round, not just a face mask at the front like Sir Geoffrey’s. Breathing holes, eye-slits, rivets … he knew every tiny facet and piece of it, and it was hardly less fine than the earl’s own. He took up the polishing cloth but sat with it idle in his hand as he gazed in wonderment at his prized possession.

‘You’ll stand out, you know.’

Martin gathered his wits. ‘What?’

‘If you polish it any more. When the sun shines on it, every eye will be on you. Check, by the way.’

There was a sound of annoyance from Adam, but Martin wasn’t going to let anything spoil his mood. ‘Well, maybe it’ll blind them all so they’re easy pickings.’ He hummed to himself as he started work.

When he was happy that the helm couldn’t be in any better state than it was, he wrapped it carefully and stowed it back in the bag. Then he moved aside the hanging that separated their service area from the main part of the pavilion and the earl’s curtained-off private area at the far end, to see if he was needed.

The earl and Sir Roger had been deep in conversation since their evening meal, continuing while the squires had been dismissed to eat theirs, and they were still going now. But the earl saw him and gave him a brief nod, so Martin took his usual position a few paces behind his lord and began to listen. They had now thankfully moved on from politics to possible battle tactics, and he wanted to learn all he could. But he’d barely heard the word ‘archers’ when there was a commotion outside.

With a brief look at the earl for permission, he strode to the pavilion entrance, pushed aside the flap that functioned as a door, and addressed the duty guard. ‘What is it?’

The guard nodded at several riders who were dismounting by the light of flaming torches and braziers. ‘Newcomers, sir.’

Martin caught the flash of blue and gold on the surcoat and turned back. ‘The Earl of Salisbury has arrived, my lord.’

The earl waved. ‘Good, good, bring him in.’

Martin bowed to the leader of those outside. ‘My lord, if you would come this way?’

Salisbury grunted. ‘Warenne in here, is he?’ He took off his gloves and thrust them at his waiting squire before pushing past Martin into the pavilion.

Inside, the earls were greeting each other. Sir Roger was bowing and taking his leave. Humphrey had appeared and was already directing servants to lay food. Salisbury sat down with the earl, but there would be little immediate rest for his attendants – two squires and a page were hovering around him, still covered in dust from the dry summer road. The youngest boy looked exhausted, drooping as he placed a table by his lord’s elbow. As he turned to fetch a cup he tripped over his feet, regained his balance without damaging anything, and was rewarded by a sharp cuff on the ear from the eldest.

Martin looked more closely. It had been a while since he’d seen them, but yes, that was definitely Philip. Martin’s heart sank, but he tried to remind himself that he was older and stronger now. The middle one, currently with his back to Martin as he filled a plate from the dishes on offer, might or might not have been a bigger version of the boy Martin vaguely remembered … yes, now that he turned to offer the plate to Salisbury, Martin could see that it was. What was his name again? Guy? No, Gregory, that was it. He had a fading bruise on the side of his face.

The small boy spilled some wine as he lifted the jug. Martin stepped forward before Philip could hit him again, but Adam was quicker. ‘Here, let me help you with that.’ Martin couldn’t help noticing that the page’s initial reaction to being addressed was to flinch and duck. They themselves were going to get a new page as soon as the Earl of Arundel joined the host, and Martin promised himself he wouldn’t be too free with his fists.

Once Salisbury was supplied with his meal, and candles had been placed to enable the two earls to see each other while they spoke, he flicked his fingers at the squires and page, and they took plates of their own and filled them. Martin pointed to the service end of the pavilion and they all made their way through. He was mildly amused to see that Edwin was still staring at the chessboard and did not even look up as they entered.

Philip sat on the stool opposite him and banged his plate down. ‘There you are. I didn’t see you out …’ He stopped as Edwin looked up and he realised his mistake. Martin stepped forward to forestall anything Edwin might say. He didn’t know Philip.

‘I don’t think my lord will need you for the rest of the evening. Why don’t you …’ He rolled his eyes in what he hoped was an obvious manner and Edwin stood up.

Now that Philip could see Edwin properly, in his nondescript clothes, he gaped in exaggerated surprise. ‘You let a servant sit with you?’

Edwin opened his mouth, but Martin gave him a shove before he could say anything. ‘He isn’t a servant.’ Martin put his face close to Edwin’s ear. ‘Just go. I’ll tell you tomorrow.’ Edwin looked puzzled, but he did as he was told.

Philip was still looking about him. ‘Changes in the household, eh? I wonder why that could be?’

Martin had no idea whether the question was genuine or whether Philip knew the truth and was trying to make trouble. The chessboard caught his eye and he thought of something Edwin had said earlier; perhaps attack would be the best way to defend. ‘That’s none of your business, and I suggest you start eating that before your lord needs you again.’

Philip’s eyes narrowed. ‘My, we have grown up, haven’t we?’ He looked down at his plate and smiled. ‘I haven’t got enough here. Matthew, give me some of yours.’

The page, whose head had been drooping over his own meal, looked up. His eyes were huge in the shadowy candlelight, but he said nothing as he held out his plate for Philip to scrape most of the food off it. Martin caught Adam’s gaze over the boy’s head and saw his mouth set in a straight line. He sighed. There was going to be trouble, and he was going to have to be the one to deal with it. So much for a simple campaign and a good fight.

It was not long before all of them were summoned back to the main central part of the pavilion. Salisbury had finished eating, so Gregory stacked the plates back on the side table ready for the servants to deal with in the morning. Salisbury told them all to be off to check that his own pavilion was now ready and said he would be along in a while. They all dutifully trooped out, little Matthew holding the tent flap open for his elders. As he was about to follow them into the night, Adam stopped him and pressed something into his hand – a piece of bread, if Martin was not mistaken.

‘You two can get to bed, too,’ said the earl. Martin gestured for Adam to head off to the curtained sleeping area. He himself checked that the jug of wine between the two earls was full and replaced a couple of candles that were burning low. He grimaced in irritation as hot wax splattered on to his hand, but it was nothing he hadn’t experienced a hundred times before. He waited until it was cool and then scraped it off before bowing and moving to the sleeping area.

Adam had already unrolled both straw palliasses out on the ground next to the wooden bed and was stretched out on one of them. He couldn’t have been there more than a few moments but he was already fast asleep. Martin took off his belt and boots and lay on the other. He dozed.

He was woken – had he even been asleep? – by the sound of voices.

‘I told you it was dangerous to come back to the lord regent’s side so soon.’

‘We had to! After Lincoln, and when it became clear that de Burgh was going to hold Dover …’

‘But now look where we are, cousin. Louis in London, and a huge fleet of reinforcements on the way. If they get through —’

‘They won’t.’

‘But what if they do? We were in a good position with Louis, could have been in line for rewards once he was crowned. But we wavered and went back. If he wins now then we’ll lose everything. It might be time to reconsider.’

‘No. That would be the worst thing we could do. To keep changing allegiance smacks of weakness, and that won’t do us any good either way.’

‘What does Arundel say?’

‘It doesn’t matter what Arundel says. He has lands but no blood. We’re the ones who are the young king’s relatives.’

‘It matters not who is related to whom. What matters, cousin, is who is going to be wearing the crown next year – or next week.’

‘We cannot go back, I tell you!’

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘Let me think.’

There was silence for a few moments.

‘We stay with the regent. If he wins, we’re his loyal men. If Louis wins, then we submit to him but say we were bound by honour to support our blood kin.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Know your enemy, man. Louis is absolutely wedded to his notions of “honour”, more fool him. He’ll fall for that.’

‘It’s too risky. He’s likely to win, so I say we go back to him now.’

‘I say not. I say we put all our efforts into making sure the young king keeps his throne, for that puts us in the best position.’

‘I’m not convinced.’

‘We’re in this together, remember? And all men know we’re allies. If you go down then you’ll drag me – and Arundel – down with you.’

‘I’ll have to think on it.’

‘You do that!’

‘I will!’

Martin heard the sound of one them, presumably Salisbury, leaving. In his half-awake state, odd thoughts ran through his head. They did sound alike, didn’t they? You could hardly tell which was which when you couldn’t see them. But then they were cousins, weren’t they? He yawned.

The earl, for it must be he who was still in the pavilion, paced up and down. Martin could hear ‘But what to do?’ repeated a couple of times, and then the sound of a chair being kicked as he swore under his breath. Then he came through to the sleeping area.

Martin roused himself, and he was careful to say nothing, to give no indication that he had heard anything, as he helped his lord prepare for the night. Then the earl settled himself in the bed, the ropes creaking under the feather mattress, and fell asleep.

Martin returned to his pallet.

It was still dark when he awoke again, confused. He was normally a heavy sleeper – why was it not dawn yet? Was anyone still arguing? No. Then what had roused him? A thought of candles came into his head, and he scratched at his hand where the wax had stuck. No, it was gone. What was he thinking of? He should go back to sleep, get some rest before tomorrow’s ride. Why was he still thinking of wax and flames?

Ah, it was because he could smell smoke.

Too much smoke.

And a crackling noise.

Jolted thoroughly awake, he sat up and reached out a hand to the heavy curtain. As soon as he pulled it back he choked, scrambled to his feet and began shouting, all at once. The pavilion was on fire.

Chapter Two

Something was amiss. Martin quite clearly had some kind of history with that other squire, and a history that wasn’t pleasant. Edwin spent the short journey back to his tent worrying about his friend: Martin could, of course, take care of himself on a physical level, but he wasn’t quite as tough as his size made him out to be. And there was a considerate side to him that not many others knew about. After the wedding, Edwin, Alys and most of the villagers had packed into his – their – cottage and shared out whatever they could bring at short notice: simple fare at the hungry midsummer time of year. They had barely settled down to it when a commotion was heard outside and, to everyone’s surprise and delight, several of the men from the castle kitchen entered, laden with bread, cheese, ale and meat pies thick with mouth-watering gravy. It wasn’t until afterwards that Edwin found out that Martin had promised Richard, the earl’s cook, almost everything he owned if he would only divert a portion of the hall’s evening meal down to the village celebration.

Brother William was already asleep and did not stir as Edwin entered the tent and rolled himself in his blanket. He didn’t really need it, as the night was warm, but he felt better for having it wrapped about him. Safer, if such a thing was possible under the circumstances. He thought he would probably lie awake for most of the night, but the day’s ride had tired him and his self-made cocoon was comfortable.

The shouts woke them both up in the middle of the night, and they scrambled out into a smoke-filled darkness alive with cries and shadows. Edwin stared in horror at the blaze, but Brother William was already pulling him. ‘Quickly!’

They ran towards the flames. Surely it couldn’t be – but it was. Dear Lord. The earl’s own pavilion. Where was he? And Martin and Adam? Edwin cast about frantically, feeling panic rise, until he saw with a wrench of relief a huge figure silhouetted against the orange glow. That could only be Martin. And there was the lord earl and Adam, both bent double and coughing. Thank God.

Edwin rushed over. ‘My lord! Are you all right?’

The earl straightened and nodded, still gasping. ‘Yes.’ He pointed. ‘But … my treasure.’

It took Edwin a moment, but then he realised. Several of the kists that were brought into the pavilion each night were stuffed with bags of pennies and other precious items, ready to use for paying his knights and men. How would this be done if the silver drained away in a molten stream? And there were letters, pieces of parchment, all in wooden boxes – they would be destroyed.

Brother William had already hurried off to join the line of men passing buckets of water up from the stream. Adam was still struggling to breathe. Edwin was the only one with no immediate task. ‘I’ll go, my lord.’

He felt the heat starting to singe him as he approached the pavilion, hands held up to shield his eyes. Thick smoke poured up into the night sky, and flame belched out from the open doorway. Edwin searched for the giant shadow, found Martin and grabbed his arm. ‘Come with me.’

The flames were loud, and so were the shouts of men. ‘What?’

Edwin stood on his toes to get nearer to Martin’s ear and bellowed. ‘We have to save my lord’s treasure!’

Martin heard him this time. ‘But how? We can’t get through that!’

Edwin pulled harder at his arm. ‘Round the back!’

He succeeded in dragging Martin away and round to the rear of the pavilion, where more water was being thrown on to the wet canvas and all the nearby tents were being hastily struck and moved.

Edwin realised he hadn’t put on his belt and dagger, and cursed. He pointed to the wall of the pavilion, at the sleeping end. ‘Cut it open!’

‘What?’

‘I said cut it open! It doesn’t matter if you ruin it – it’s going to burn anyway!’ He pulled Martin’s knife from his belt and plunged it into the taut canvas, dragging it down with both hands to open a vertical rip. He jumped back as a burst of heat boiled out, but no flames yet. He stabbed the knife again, trying to enlarge the hole.

Martin belatedly realised what he was doing, grabbed the edge of the cut and heaved. This tore a hole large enough for Edwin to squeeze through, and he made his way in. The smoke was thick, choking, but the heavy hangings separating the area from the rest of the pavilion would keep the worst of the flames out for a few moments more. Edwin tried as best he could to cover his nose and mouth as he groped his way around. There. Wood. A corner of something. He started to drag the kist.

It was heavy. How long would it take him to get it back to the rip in the canvas? And for how long could he hold his breath? Suddenly Martin was beside him, and the kist moved as they heaved it together. A third man joined them, and then others were there outside as they reached the hole. Edwin took a huge gulp of air and then pushed his way back in. How many kists were there? And had they all been together?

By the time he’d made it out with another box he could hardly breathe at all and he collapsed in a heap on the ground. Someone bent over him and he recognised Sir Roger’s voice. ‘Edwin! Edwin, are you all right?’ Edwin couldn’t speak but he managed a nod. Sir Roger straightened and turned back towards the pavilion, but the flames had now reached the sleeping area. ‘I don’t think we’ll —’

A small figure darted past him and dived through the hole. Sir Roger shouted after it. ‘Peter! Come back!’

And then Edwin watched as the flames burst through the pointed top of the pavilion, creating a funnel, a natural chimney for the fire. It roared up into the night and the remaining canvas ignited with a whoosh, a huge flaming torch lighting up the night sky before it caved in on itself and disintegrated into a scorching whirl of flying cinders.

It was dawn.

Edwin stood among a circle of men staring at the sodden and steaming heap of ashes. It could have been worse, he supposed. The pavilion was entirely destroyed, as was much of its furniture, but no man had lost his life, and the earl’s treasure and correspondence had been saved.