The Sins of the Father E-Book

C.B. Hanley

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

Seitenzahl: 434

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

1217: England has been invaded. Much of the country is in the iron grip of Louis of France and his collaborators, and civil war rages as the forces of the boy king try to fight off the French. Most of this means nothing to Edwin Weaver, son of the bailiff at Conisbrough Castle in Yorkshire, until he is suddenly thrust into the noble world of politics and treachery: he is ordered by his lord the earl to solve a murder which might have repercussions not just for him but for the future of the realm. Edwin is terrified but he must obey; he takes on the challenge and learns more until he uncovers a horrific secret which has been dead and buried for fifteen years, a secret which might kill them all – and realises there are some questions to which he might not wish to know the answers. The first book in C.B. Hanley's popular Mediaeval Mystery series.

Leseprobe

To

K.I.B.

for the fun we used to have.

For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,

visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children.

Exodus, ch. 20, v. 5

Acknowledgements

My thanks are due to a number of people who helped in many different ways while this book was being written.

First of all, my love and appreciation go to my husband, James, and our children, for putting up with me during all the time I’ve been glued to my computer; James also spent a lot of time making a beautiful electronic map of Conisbrough based on my rather sketchy, hand-drawn effort.

Then there are those whom I approached for criticism, who gave me a great deal of feedback on early drafts which was, at times, so eye-wateringly honest that I could only look at it through my interlaced fingers: Rob Hemus, Stephanie Tickle, Roberta Wooldridge Smith, Richard Skinner and China Miéville.

I’d also like to acknowledge the contribution of those who encouraged me to keep writing even when it wasn’t going so well, and who have listened to my endless moaning on the subject. There are many of these, but I’d like to thank Susan Brock, Andrew Bunbury, Adam Cartwright, Julian Moss and Martin Smalley in particular. Matilda Richards, Commissioning Editor at The History Press, has been an absolute delight to work with, and I would like to thank her for answering all my emails promptly, fully and with good cheer, even the picky ones!

Finally, my thanks go to the academic who, many years ago when I first thought of writing mediaeval murder mysteries, told me (in a nice way) that all historical fiction was necessarily rubbish, but that I should at least try to write plausible rubbish. I hope that readers of The Sins of the Father find it not only plausible but enjoyable as well.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Historical Note

About the Author

Copyright

Prologue

Normandy, 1203

The boy was about to be murdered.

He didn’t know it yet; he was aware of nothing except his own pain and misery. He could feel the cold against the side of his face and the front of his body, the dampness seeping through his clothing as he lay in the darkness on the filthy floor. The cell stank, but he’d long since ceased to notice it. Something scuttled over his foot, but he didn’t move. He kept his eyes closed, knowing that there would be nothing to see if he opened them, nothing except the blackness which had almost sent him mad. For weeks he had lain there, held in place by the weight of the shackles and chains, slowly losing all hope. Nobody would come for him.

When he first heard the sound, he couldn’t make out what it was, and thought that his mind must be playing tricks on him. But there it was again: the scraping metallic sound of a key in the lock. As the door to the cell creaked protestingly open, he raised his head. It seemed unnaturally heavy and he flinched as the unaccustomed brightness stabbed at his eyes, attempting to move his hand up to his face; at the same time he welcomed the rush of air into the fetid space. The shadows of three men were dancing in the flickering torchlight, and the boy struggled into a kneeling position to get a better look at them, the weight of his chains dragging him down and rasping the raw flesh around his wrists and ankles. He whimpered at the pain, but it helped to waken him.

He could barely see past the light, but gradually he was able to make out the silent visitors, and cold fear struck anew. The man on the left was extraordinarily tall, stooping, his face masked by a blank expression. He held aloft a burning torch; the other was held by the man on the right, who was looking apprehensive and sick. The light illuminated the face of the figure in the middle, who, in contrast to the others, seemed to be enjoying himself. He smiled, revealing a mouth which lacked two teeth on the left-hand side. The boy forced his bleary eyes to focus on the face and gasped. His voice didn’t want to work, but he licked his cracked lips and managed to croak one word.

‘You!’

The man’s smile widened and he spoke. ‘Yes, me. And I’ve been looking forward to this moment, ever since you were foolish enough to slight me. Revenge is sweet.’ His smile gloated as his hand toyed with the dagger at his belt.

So this was it. After the weeks of pain and darkness, hunger and hopelessness, this was the end. The fear was heart-stopping, overwhelming, trying to climb out of his throat, but he must fight it for a while longer. Just a few more moments. Remember who you are. With a huge effort of will the boy drew together the last shreds of dignity and strength and hauled himself upright, despite the protests of his battered body. If this was death, he would meet it on his feet.

The man drew his dagger and stepped forward.

The child was awakened by a battering at the door and the shouts of men. Mama and Papa were roused as well, and the hangings of the big bed were pulled back as they leapt up.

Papa spoke. ‘I should have known this would happen. We don’t have much time.’

Mama looked frightened. ‘Is it him?’

‘Yes. But he won’t harm you or …’ He stopped at the sound of a scream from downstairs. Mama’s hand flew to her mouth and the two of them looked at each other. Papa looked around the room, his head twisting from side to side. ‘There’s nowhere for you to hide.’ His voice sounded strange, rising in pitch as he stalked across the chamber, flinging the bedclothes aside. Mama stopped him, taking his hand, and they gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment. What was the matter? Why were the servants downstairs screaming? Was somebody hurt? Surely Papa would be able to sort out whatever the problem was and then they could all go back to sleep.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Quickly, Papa barred the door as someone outside started to pound on it. Suddenly the child was afraid.

‘Wait!’ Mama ran to the foot of the bed and opened the big kist which held the linen, pulling things out of it and throwing them aside. They had been folded so neatly – if the child had done that, sharp words would have followed. This was difficult to understand.

Papa hurried across the room and bent down, his face very close, his beard tickling the child’s face as he whispered.

‘Listen. I want you to hide in here and not make a sound. Whatever happens – whatever you see or hear – do not get out until all these men have gone. You must obey me. Do you understand?’ The child nodded wordlessly and was swept up in strong arms and placed in the chest. Papa was twisting the large signet ring with its lion’s head off his finger and holding it out. ‘Take this and keep it safe. Always remember who you are.’ Bemused, for Papa never took off the ring, the child nodded again and clutched at it. A brief kiss from Mama and the lid of the kist was being lowered. Everything went black as the first sounds of splintering came from the door.

It was dark and close in the kist. The child listened as men smashed the door and burst into the room. A clash of swords. Papa’s voice: ‘Stay behind me!’ The shouts of more men and an unearthly, horrible scream from Mama, ending in a strange gurgling noise. Another cry from Papa, sounding desperate. More clashing of swords and the voice of a different man: ‘Disarm him!’. Smashing furniture and the thud of something hitting the floor, then a lull broken by harsh panting. Everything went quiet. Warily, the child pushed the lid of the kist open a crack to see if anyone was looking this way. Nobody was. The child gazed around and gasped in horror: Mama was lying on the floor in the corner, covered in blood and not moving. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Papa was on his knees in front of her, breathing heavily and being held by two mailed soldiers who were twisting his arms behind him. A richly dressed man stood over him, holding a sword. Papa looked up, his face bleeding.

‘I should have known it would come to this. You are the very devil in human form.’

‘Please. You must realise that after what you witnessed yesterday, there was no possibility that I could let you live.’

‘When our lord hears of this …’

The man snorted. ‘Our lord? It was he who ordered me here.’

Papa struggled against the men restraining him. The child had never seen him look so angry. He shouted: ‘I did what I did for the good of the kingdom! I didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to witness it even, but I realised it was the only chance for peace, to stop further bloodshed.’ His voice rose. ‘I felt sick just being there. But you? You enjoyed it!’

The man seemed to think about this for a moment, then spoke again. ‘Well yes, maybe I did. The whelp deserved it. This, on the other hand … I’m almost sorry. Almost.’

In one quick movement he brought his sword back and thrust it into Papa’s body before ripping it back out again. Unable to believe the sight but powerless to avoid it, the child watched as Papa slowly fell forward out of the grasp of the men, blood spewing from the hole in his body and from his mouth. As he died, his face turned towards the kist, and for one frozen moment his eyes caught those watching him before the light went out of them and his body slumped to the floor. The child stared, hypnotised, at the blood spreading across the floor and soaking into the discarded bedsheets, but was jolted back to reality by the man’s voice.

‘Our work here is done.’ He smiled, revealing that he lacked two teeth on the left-hand side of his mouth, and turned to walk out of the room. As he left he issued an order to his men.

‘Burn it down.’

In the grey light of dawn the child wandered, dazed, through the ashes of the building. What had happened? Who was the man? Shut in a private world, the child never noticed the hooves of the horse as they approached, rearing at the last moment to avoid crushing the tiny figure. The child looked up and, for the first time in many hours, saw a kind face. They stared at each other for a long moment before the man spoke, his voice gentle.

‘Was this your house?’ The child nodded mutely. The man looked at the ashes. ‘Your father and mother?’ Tears started to run down the child’s face as the man registered grim understanding. ‘An evil deed. But perhaps some good may come of it.’ He leant down from the saddle and the child was encircled in one strong arm and lifted high on to the great horse. It was just like riding with Papa … the tears came again, and as the man and the child rode away from the ruins of the house, one tiny hand was clenched around the ring.

Chapter One

Yorkshire, 1217

Edwin whistled to himself as he crossed the courtyard. He was in a better humour that morning. The Lord knew he had no reason to be, but he’d momentarily escaped the semi-darkness of William the Steward’s office, the spring air was fresh, the sun was shining, and he was surrounded by familiar, smiling faces, so his spirits had lifted a little. He sidestepped neatly as one of the masons swept past him without looking, and tossed one of his mother’s oatcakes from hand to hand as he continued on his way.

And then, without warning, the fear struck him.

The dread. It had been a constant companion these past weeks, a black demon squatting on his shoulder, and now he stopped in his tracks, the feeling jolting him, overwhelming him, making him feel sick to the pit of his stomach. Every so often he forgot about it, managed to feel happier for just a moment – or even for a longer while – but then it would return. He knew why, of course, but that didn’t exactly help. He was dizzy. Quick, find something else to think about. Look at the keep. Think of it; force yourself to concentrate on it and nothing else. Breathe.

He considered the building, the huge whiteness towering over him as it had done since his childhood. He focused his mind. He wondered if there could possibly be a finer or more impressive building in England. Neither round nor square but a strange multi-angular shape, the design had been the idea of the old earl Hamelin, the present earl’s father, who’d had it built to replace the old wooden keep which had existed for as long as anyone could remember. Not that Edwin had ever seen the old keep – the stone one had been finished before he was born – but he could well imagine the difference it had made to the appearance of the castle. He tipped his head back to look all the way up to the top: four floors high, plus the wall walk on the roof; how could men construct such a huge edifice? And how many stones had been used in its creation? As usual, the figures arranged themselves neatly in his head, and the dread receded a little, pushed back into the recesses of his mind as he started to calculate how many stones might be in one layer all the way round, plus the buttresses of course, and how many layers made up the building …

So engrossed was he in his reckoning that he was nearly upon the two ladies before he noticed them, and he stepped back hastily with a muttered apology to allow them to pass. The earl’s sister, as was her usual custom, swept past without a word, considering him too lowly to notice, but her companion, Mistress Joanna, rolled her eyes at him as she scurried to keep up. Edwin managed a slight smile, forgetting his own troubles long enough to wonder how she managed to maintain such a sunny disposition when she had to spend so much of her day shut up with that old … no, he should stop that line of thought immediately, lest he think something insulting about one of his betters. But still, Mistress Joanna must have to exhibit considerable forbearance to be the companion of the Lady Isabelle de Warenne, and she did it with grace and a ready smile. Perhaps that was one of the things Robert liked about her; Edwin had long suspected that the two of them might be sweethearts.

Robert. Now, there was an idea: maybe he would have some further news about the war; as the earl’s senior squire, he had access to information to which other mortals were not privy. Besides, it might help him to keep his own mind off other matters. Where would Robert be?

He had just set off across the bustling inner ward again when a blond head hit him at speed – painfully – in the midriff, knocking him off balance. Momentarily winded, Edwin gasped for air, but steadied himself and put out his arms to stop the boy falling. At one glance he took in the large chunk of bread in one hand, the even larger chunk in the mouth, and the nearby open door to the kitchens, and smiled, properly this time.

‘All right, Simon, all right, no harm done, but slow down or you’ll choke yourself!’ The boy sprayed crumbs everywhere as he tried to offer an apology, but only ended up gagging. Grimacing and wiping the front of his tunic with one hand, Edwin held him steady and then reached out and thumped him hard on the back until he stopped. ‘There. Better? Good. Now, if you can stand still for one moment, perhaps you can tell me where Robert is?’

Simon took a deep breath and a swallow. ‘Hello Edwin I’m sorry I hurt you he’s down at the stables with Martin looking at my lord’s new warhorse I wanted to go and see him as well he’s a beauty but I had to take a message for my lord!’ Another breath. ‘Can I go now?’ Working his way through the gabbled, pauseless sentence, Edwin translated the answer he needed and released the page, who raced off across the inner ward, narrowly avoiding an incident with one of the serving-men carrying a bucket of water from the well. The encounter had saved him an unnecessary trip all round the castle, at any rate: he changed course and headed out through the gatehouse, waving to the porter as he passed, and down into the outer ward.

There was an open area to one side of the stables where steeds could be exercised, and Edwin’s eye was drawn there first, as two of the grooms were putting the finest horse he’d ever seen through its paces. The chestnut stallion was trotting in a circle, a long rein held in the hand of one of the men. Edwin drank in the sight: what would he give to be able to ride a horse like that? He’d ridden before, of course, not like some of the villagers: his father was the bailiff on the earl’s Conisbrough estate and often had to travel to some of the outlying holdings on business, and Edwin had accompanied him on a number of occasions as his assistant and scribe. But he’d ridden one of the estate’s rounceys, workaday horses which rarely travelled faster than a leisurely amble; the animal in front of him was a destrier, a warhorse destined to carry the earl in battle. It was a magnificent specimen, a perfect blend of strength and grace.

Two other young men were watching the horse. One was more than a head taller than the other, and as Edwin drew near to them he nudged his companion and pointed, and Robert turned to greet him, the smile on his face broadening. Little needed to be said as he moved up to make room, and the three of them stood watching the animal’s exercise. After a short while scrutinising the horse’s gait, Robert nodded briskly at the grooms, indicating that they could lead it back to its stable. He turned to Martin, having to look up steeply.

‘Go and tell our lord that the horse is fine: no ill-effects from the journey. I’ll be there shortly.’

Martin nodded and loped up the hill towards the inner ward, seeming to be all elbows and knees as his long-legged strides carried him along the path. Edwin watched him go, wondering when he had last heard the earl’s second squire actually speak. Seeing his friend’s gaze, Robert remarked, ‘I swear if that boy grows any taller we’ll be able to use him as a flagpole. I’m already having difficulty in training against his long reach, and once he comes into his full strength there’ll be no stopping him. Now come …’ Grabbing Edwin by the shoulder, he steered him towards the path back up to the inner ward. ‘You must have a few moments to spare, let’s get some air.’

Edwin didn’t take much persuading. He’d been helping William Steward with his accounts all the morning, which was not actually his task, but his assistance had saved his uncle several days of puzzling labour. Edwin could never understand how it was that other people couldn’t see the neat columns of numbers in their heads, or how they had trouble adding up bushels, or ells, or shillings and pence, but it seemed that they did, so he was happy to help out with something which was no effort to him. But the tiny office which led off the service area behind the great hall was cramped and airless, and he was glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs. He tossed the oatcake he was holding – now somewhat the worse for wear – to Robert and fished another out of the front of his tunic for himself as they entered the gatehouse and climbed the stone steps which led up to the walk around the top of the inner ward’s encircling walls. A man-at-arms who was about to come down stood aside and waited while they ascended; Edwin nodded his thanks as they passed, for it was Berold, a local man he’d known since childhood.

It was windy up there, as it usually was, but the air was fresh and free from the normal smells of tightly-packed humanity. Edwin took a deep breath and tried to unwind the knots in his head. They strolled around towards the north side of the castle and then stopped, surveying the bustling ward beneath. The work of rebuilding the castle in stone was continuing: the keep and curtain wall were complete, but most of the buildings inside the inner ward, nestling against the walls, were still wooden. The earl had ordered them replaced, and masons hurried to and fro going about their tasks. Their work was a mystery to Edwin, but each seemed to know his part, and the structures came together like magic under their hands. For many of them it was a lifetime’s work; some of them had learnt their trade there from their fathers, who had built the keep itself a generation ago. They were starting with the kitchen, which Edwin supposed was sensible, as that was the part of the castle most susceptible to fire. Then their work would move on to the adjacent great hall, and Edwin thought to himself that it would indeed be a grand place to eat when it was finished. It was no more than the earl merited, though: William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, was one of the richest and most powerful men in the kingdom, and it was right and fitting that he should have imposing surroundings in which to entertain and impress his guests. Edwin had never met the earl face-to-face, of course, but he’d sometimes seen him at fairly close quarters during the course of his work, and he counted himself fortunate to live under the rule of such a great man. It was the best that someone like him could hope for.

Robert finished his cake and fastidiously picked a few crumbs off the front of his tunic as they continued walking. There was a moment of companionable silence before Edwin asked a question about one of the two things which had been preying on his mind these last days.

‘So the earl will join the war against the French invaders?’

Robert sighed. ‘Yes, it looks that way.’ He fiddled with the thong around his neck which held something he kept under his shirt – Edwin suspected it was a lock of hair or some other keepsake from Mistress Joanna, as he had observed that she had a similar cord around her own neck – and went on. ‘Prince Louis holds large parts of the country, so the regent needs to stop him before he gets too powerful. He’ll be forced to do something soon, so we’ll have to be prepared to march anywhere at his command.’

Edwin was about to press him for more details, but he stopped.

‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘Over there.’ Edwin pointed out along the road that led south from the village, where he could just make out what looked like a moving patch of dust.

Robert screwed his eyes up. ‘What is it?’

‘I think it’s a man on horseback, and it looks like he’s in a hurry.’

Robert sounded impressed. ‘Your eyes are better than my falcon’s. Come on, we’d better go down to meet him – perhaps he’s got a message for my lord.’

Edwin could see the man clearly now – as could one of the guards, belatedly calling out – and surely nobody would labour a precious horse that way unless he had a duty of some urgency. They hurried back along the parapet, down the stairs, out of the gatehouse and through the outer ward, just as a man on an exhausted, lathered horse dismounted by the outer gate and demanded that he be taken to see the earl immediately. Robert stepped forward briskly, all business, any signs of relaxation gone. ‘I’m Robert Fitzhugh, the earl’s squire. I’ll take you to him.’ As he led the man up the hill, he looked over his shoulder at Edwin and threw him a parting remark. ‘I’ll try and find you later, to tell you about it.’ Edwin nodded, but he doubted that his friend would have much leisure time for the rest of the day, for he had seen the badge that the messenger wore on his tunic: the emblem of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil, and regent of all England.

Earl William de Warenne was a man with a temper. He rarely lost it, but when he did, men trembled at his wrath. His squires, therefore, tried to avoid doing anything which would prompt an outburst, but as Martin stood in the shadows at the edge of the council chamber, he could see that the Lady Isabelle was treading on very dangerous ground.

The earl had been pleased when he’d entered to give the good news about the destrier’s condition, but his easy gait and ready smile had turned to tight, controlled movements and short, barked sentences as soon as his sister came in. If Martin had been able to give her any advice, it would have been to avoid the topic upon which he knew she was about to embark, but of course he was in no position to speak to her without being asked, so he kept his mouth shut and watched as she made her situation much, much worse. It wasn’t just the subject, which even Martin had heard many times; it was that particularly whining tone of voice which just bored into his head.

The earl’s speech became even more brusque and one fist started to clench. Martin cast a glance down at young Simon, to check he wasn’t about to do anything which would make him a potential target of the outburst which was now inevitable: he hadn’t quite mastered the art of standing perfectly still until summoned, and was therefore apt to bring himself to the attention of his betters at inconvenient times. But he wasn’t fidgeting, he was concentrating avidly on the exchange in front of him; of course, the Lady Isabelle had slapped his face only that morning, and in front of a group of smirking guards as well, so he would probably enjoy seeing her brother put her in her place.

The earl was doing remarkably well at keeping his voice level, despite the whining and wailing, but both fists were now balled. Martin set himself to staring straight ahead to avoid looking either of them in the eye, and tried to sink into his own thoughts. His feet hurt: the boots which he’d only been wearing since Christmas were becoming too small, but as they were still in good condition he dared not ask for any more. He would have to make them last, but maybe he could do something with them to make them stretch a bit further? He would have a try later on whenever he got the chance to sit down.

The earl had just taken in a deep breath when there was a sudden knock at the door, and the bellow which had been meant for his sister ended up being directed at whoever was outside. Martin winced when he saw Robert step over the threshold, aware of his spectacularly bad timing, but all was saved by the entrance of a tired-looking, mud-splattered man. He had his back to Martin, but the earl took one look at the badge on the front of the man’s tunic and stopped mid-word. He ushered his sister out of the room, virtually shoving her out into the passageway, and slammed the door behind her. The man turned, and Martin could see the emblem of the regent on his chest.

The earl said nothing as he let the envoy speak his message; then, expressionless, he sent Robert off with the man to the kitchen for some refreshment, and Simon to find Sir Geoffrey. As he waited for the arrival of the old castellan he paced up and down the council chamber in silence.

After a few moments a knock sounded at the door, and on the earl’s signal Martin opened it to admit Sir Geoffrey, the commander of the Conisbrough garrison, with Simon trailing behind him. Martin might have known that the earl would ask for the knight’s advice before coming to a final decision: Sir Geoffrey had been in the service of the Warennes for the whole of his life, as had his father before him, and was the veteran of many a campaign. He nodded wordlessly at the earl and waited for him to speak.

‘The regent has decided to act.’

‘Lincoln?’ Sir Geoffrey didn’t believe in wasting words, but despite having listened to the envoy, Martin was still a little hazy on the details. Simon looked at him enquiringly, but he shrugged, hoping that Robert might be able to fill them in later on. He always understood these things better.

The earl continued. ‘Yes. He calls “all loyal men” to muster at Newark in four days’ time in order to march on Lincoln and relieve the castle. The question is, shall I obey?’ Sir Geoffrey said nothing, watching his lord intently. Martin’s eyes, too, followed the earl up and down the room as he paced, wrestling with himself. Martin might not have understood all of the message, but what was clear was that the earl’s decision might eventually mean life or death for him and many others.

After what seemed like an age, the earl stopped. He turned to Sir Geoffrey. ‘Making a truce with him is a far cry from risking the lives of my men fighting for his cause.’ He paused, then continued, his voice for a moment sounding a little less sure. ‘And yet … the king isn’t responsible for the sins of his father, and an English boy king is to be preferred to a French prince.’ He folded his arms and spoke with more force. ‘We will fight.’

As Edwin walked through the ward a little later, people were running in all directions in a great hurry and there was a buzz of activity and excitement about the place. The news that the earl would shortly be marching off to war had spread around the castle like a moorland fire. He moved quickly aside as a mounted man sped out of the gate, and hailed Martin as the tall squire hurried out of the stables. Martin waved an arm but didn’t stop. ‘Busy, important news … Robert says … in the hall after the evening meal.’ Edwin nodded and Martin loped off.

When Edwin reached the great hall and the service room behind it he found all in an uproar. William Steward was standing amid a throng of serving-men barking orders. He saw Edwin approaching. ‘Where have you been? The earl and his men need to leave in three days, and they’ll need campaign supplies with them. There’s a lot to do and I could use your skill with numbers. Have you time?’ Edwin opened his mouth to speak. ‘Good, come with me.’ Edwin shut his mouth again and followed his uncle.

William led the way into the relative calm of his office and gestured for Edwin to sit. ‘I have a list of the supplies which the host will need,’ he waved a piece of parchment, ‘but I haven’t yet worked out the quantities. I want you to find out exactly how many men and horses will be going – I’ve sent a boy for the muster rolls – work out what each needs per day, and then calculate how much will be needed for forty days. When you’ve done that for each type of supply, send the boy to me with the details, so I can arrange for the stores to be fetched and packed. Pens and ink are there.’ He gestured to the end of the table. ‘All right?’ Edwin nodded, and William gave him a brief but hearty thump on the shoulder by way of thanks then left, shouting for his wife as he went.

Grimacing and rubbing his shoulder, Edwin pulled the quills towards him and took out his knife to sharpen them. If ever a man had been born to be a steward, William was not he, and as he always did, Edwin wondered how in the Lord’s name he had come to be given the exalted position. William had once been a soldier, but had been wounded in the service of the old earl and couldn’t continue. He never spoke of the circumstances, but Edwin’s guess was that he’d rendered some service to the earl as, instead of being pensioned off or left to find his own way in the world, he’d been made steward, in charge of all the stores and supplies at the Conisbrough estate. He was – in Edwin’s opinion anyway – unsuited to the job, having a blunt soldier’s outlook on life and no head for figures whatsoever. However, over the years he’d learned his new trade fairly well and was now competent, except when it came to making large calculations. But he deserved a new chance at life: whatever his service to the earl had been, he’d paid a high price for it. He walked with a permanent limp as one leg was twisted; a horrific scar disfigured the entire left side of his face, and part of his left ear was missing. The one advantage of this, if any aspect of such a grave injury could be called an advantage, was that the scar gave his face a terrible, almost demonic look, and all his underlings and the traders who dealt with him were so intimidated that nobody ever tried to cheat him. This belied the fact that he was even-tempered and pleasant, but it was useful nonetheless. He was also married to Edwin’s mother’s sister, and so deserved not only respect but affection as well, which was why Edwin seemed to spend so much of his time helping him, he supposed. The quills sharpened, Edwin took a deep breath, dipped one in the ink, and started to write. The figures arranged themselves neatly in his head as he became engrossed.

By the time he looked up from his labours the room was almost dark. He smelt the evening meal being prepared and realised he was hungry. Giving the last parchment to a very tired-looking serving-boy, he put the pen down and stretched his arms. He was exhausted, but that was good. Maybe he would be able to sleep tonight. He drifted in something of a daze into the hall, wandered down to one of the lower tables which ran lengthways down the room, and found himself a seat next to Berold. When all were assembled the earl entered, followed by his sister and his squires and page. Everyone stood while Father Ignatius said grace, and then the earl sat, with Lady Isabelle on his right and Sir Geoffrey on his left, which was the signal for all to take their places and begin eating. Edwin nodded his thanks to the serving-man who placed a trencher in front of him, and then began to eat with gusto when it was loaded with a thick pottage and a piece of good maslin bread to dip into it. As it was Monday, meat was permitted, which gave the pottage a hearty flavour, and Edwin applied himself to working his way through it all as quickly as possible. He was so hungry that he ate the trencher as well, feeling a moment’s guilt that the soaked bread wouldn’t go to the poor, but knowing that there would be plenty of others. As he ate he tried to catch Robert’s eye, but his friend was too far away, and was, in any case, busy serving the earl with the different dishes at the high table, pouring his wine, and keeping an eye on Simon to see that he was performing the same services for Lady Isabelle. Martin, who was attending to Sir Geoffrey, was doing so in an exemplary fashion and from what Edwin could see rarely needed a word from his senior.

At the end of the meal the earl rose and retired from the room, indicating to his squires and page that they could now help themselves. He left with Sir Geoffrey; the rest of the people in the hall started to disperse, and Robert, Martin and Simon all took trenchers and piled them high with food before making their way down the hall to where Edwin was. He looked enviously at their meals: it was no feast day, but the food from the high table was still something to be marvelled at. The pottage served to the main hall had been perfectly adequate, but here were some real delicacies such as venison haunch, quails and a tart made with thick, creamy rewain cheese, as well as real white paindemain bread. Edwin felt hungry all over again. Martin and Simon – whose platter was heaped so high he could barely see over it – thumped down on to the bench opposite Edwin, while Robert seated himself next to his friend and indicated that he should help himself to some of the food on the trencher. Edwin dipped a chunk of the light bread into the rich sauce which covered the quails, and savoured it while he waited eagerly to hear all the news.

Robert ate a large mouthful before starting. ‘You already know that we’re going to join the war?’ Edwin nodded. Not only did he know that, but he also knew exactly how many men the earl would be taking, and what supplies would be provided for each of them, but he didn’t interrupt. Simon tried to ask a question but choked on the enormous piece of venison which he was busy stuffing into his mouth. Martin thumped him hard on the back and he gave a large swallow before continuing in his piping voice. ‘But I don’t understand. Why have we changed sides?’ Edwin nodded, as he also had to admit to confusion about some of the details. He was glad that Simon had asked, to save him the embarrassment of sounding foolish.

Robert sighed. ‘I’d better start from the beginning.’ He ate another large spoonful of the cheese tart as he considered his next words. ‘All right then. Now, as you know, the old king —,’ Simon spluttered again and sprayed breadcrumbs on the table, but Robert seemed to understand, ‘Yes, Simon, that’s right – he was a bad king.’

Edwin concentrated hard on Robert’s words and tried to make sense of it all. King John hadn’t respected the rights of his nobles and knights, so they’d rebelled against him. That made sense. The king had had to sign the Great Charter and agree to uphold the nobles’ rights, but even then he didn’t respect them, so the nobles eventually tired of his empty promises and offered the crown to someone else. Presumptuous, yes, but still making sense. They’d offered it to Prince Louis, the son of the French king. That was a bit of a logical leap – why the French prince and not someone else? He’d have to check up later, but he wasn’t going to make himself look stupid by interrupting now. Anyway, Robert was continuing. The earl hadn’t been one of these disaffected nobles to start with, but he came round to their way of thinking and joined them later. But then, last autumn, the king died, and he was succeeded by his son, who was only nine years old.

Robert’s voice was full of laughter as he looked down. ‘Just imagine that, Simon: someone the same age as you being king!’

Simon was busy chewing and didn’t answer, but his eyes widened as Robert continued. ‘So, clearly this meant that some of the nobles changed their ideas. All of the complaints about John’s injustice and misrule could hardly be brought against a young boy.’ He paused and took another mouthful. Martin too was eating steadily but hugely, as if he would keep going until the day of judgement, and Edwin hastily helped himself to more bread and sauce before it all disappeared. He listened with care as he savoured the food. Some of the nobles had changed their allegiance back to the young King Henry – and to the regent, who was ruling for him until he was older – and decided to fight against Louis. They didn’t really want a Frenchman as king, they just thought that anyone would be better than John. The earl was one of these men, and last month he had made a truce with the regent.

Robert waved his spoon in the air as he concluded. ‘And today the regent has summoned all men who are loyal to him to muster and march to the relief of Lincoln.’

Edwin felt that he understood a little more clearly after this explanation. ‘So the French forces hold Lincoln?’ He had no idea where Lincoln was, but he had heard of it, and it wouldn’t do to sound too ignorant. He hoped nobody would ask him any questions.

‘They hold the town but not the castle. Look, I’ll show you.’ Robert enthusiastically started to rearrange cups and dishes in order to illustrate his point, but gave up when he saw the confused faces around him. He sighed. ‘All right. Let us speak more simply. From what I could gather from the messenger’s words today, Louis holds most of eastern England except the strongholds of Dover, Windsor and Lincoln.’ He banged his finger down in three places on the table. ‘He himself is currently in London,’ – another bang – ‘but his army is at Lincoln.’ And another. ‘The town has surrendered but the castle within it is still resisting, so we will march to relieve them and hopefully destroy much of the French army behind Louis’s back.’ He thumped his palm down flat, as if to emphasise the finality of it all.

He made it sound so simple. Simon’s eyes were shining at the thought, although the earl would presumably make sure that the boy came nowhere near the combat. Still, all three of them would march away with the earl while Edwin would have to remain here at Conisbrough. The darkness, which had been hovering around the edges of his consciousness, threatened to return.

Robert finished his meal and looked across at Martin. ‘Come. We’d better get back across in case our lord needs us before he retires.’ The four of them rose from their seats and left the hall, Edwin to return to the village and the other three to climb up the stairs and across the bridge to the keep. The earl did have a luxurious great chamber – one of the wooden buildings inside the inner ward which would soon be rebuilt in stone – but Robert had once told Edwin that since his wife had died two years before, the earl had preferred the plain quarters of the keep’s bedchamber when he was at Conisbrough, leaving the more opulent apartments to his widowed sister. Edwin supposed that was fair, although he knew little of how the nobility arranged these things. Simon yawned and dragged his feet as they left the building, and Robert gave him an affectionate shove to get him going. ‘Let’s hope the earl doesn’t need you for anything else tonight, or you’d probably pour his wine all over him.’ He grinned at Edwin. ‘Mind you, all three of us are such sound sleepers that our lord practically has to set his dogs on us to rouse us in the mornings!’

They walked across the courtyard, and Edwin turned towards the torchlit gatehouse to the accompaniment of a sleepy goodnight from Simon, a nod from Martin, and a promise from Robert that he would try to visit on the morrow if he could manage it. He nodded to the night porter and walked out through the outer ward, down the road and into the quiet, still street of the village towards his parents’ house, where he could see a rushlight still burning in expectation of him. He slowed his pace as he neared the house, the dread returning in waves. He knew what he would have to face when he got there. He couldn’t do it. The compulsion to turn and run was so strong that he could almost taste it. He slowed, nearly stopped. But he had to keep going, he must. It was his duty. The demon of fear must be overcome. He clenched his fists, prayed for strength, and forced himself to open the door and step over the threshold.

Chapter Two

Simon awoke just as the dawn light started to filter in through the window of the chamber. Something was poking him in the ribs and he shuffled sleepily to try and get away from it, but it was insistent, digging into his side. He sighed, grumbled and opened one eye to see what it was. It turned out to be the earl’s foot, joined onto a body which had already drawn back the curtains of the big bed and risen from it. Horrified at his own negligence, Simon disentangled himself from the earl’s two favourite hunting dogs, who were sprawled next to him, and sat up, throwing his blanket aside. He yawned. He hated having to get up in the mornings. Still, at least he was nice and warm, not like he had been in the winter: as the spring wore on even the rooms within the thick walls of the keep lost their chill. He was lucky that he slept next to the fire: this honour should of course belong to the senior squire, but when Simon had first arrived a couple of years ago Robert had let him sleep there to make him feel more at home, and the habit had continued. Simon hoped to himself that nobody would notice and that he would be able to keep the place, so he had never mentioned it, and so far nobody else had either. Robert himself was nearer the door, and the long form of Martin was stretched out, snoring gently, on the other side of the room. Simon kicked them both to wake them, even as he scurried to pour his lord a drink and fetch him water to wash.

Once he’d finished, the earl retired downstairs to his private chapel for a few moments. Simon supposed he should say a morning prayer as well, but it was difficult to concentrate over the groaning noise from his stomach. How long would it be before he could get something to eat? But rules were rules, so he briefly dropped to his knees and asked the Lord’s forgiveness for any sins he might have committed since the last time, and added a request that there might be wafers in the kitchen that day. By that time the earl had returned, and Simon followed him down the stairs and out of the keep.

Outside in the inner ward there were plenty of people around doing their jobs, and a lovely smell of warm bread coming from the kitchen. He started to drift in that direction but was brought up short by the earl, who looked up at the cloudless sky, sniffed the fresh air, and announced that they would go for a ride.

Simon looked at him and the earl laughed.

‘Never fear – you’ll be able to break your fast when we return. But now I need some peace and quiet before all my knights descend on us with their retinues, so off you go and saddle Gringolet for me.’

This was cheering news. Riding out with the earl, on the wide open spaces of his lands, was Simon’s second-favourite thing – and, even better than that, it was to be just the two of them, so he would be able to accompany his master like a grown man, and not have to trail along behind Robert and Martin. He skipped down to the stable. Ah. The problem with being his lord’s only attendant, of course, was that he now had sole responsibility for preparing his lord’s courser, with no Robert or Martin to help or to tell him what to do. He would have to be very careful to do everything properly so that the earl would praise his efforts.

Now, what was it that Robert had shown him? He went over to the end of the stable block where all the tack was kept and took Gringolet’s bridle off its hook, slinging it over his shoulder to carry. Next he picked up the saddle: it was really heavy, but he was determined to do everything by himself, so he didn’t call a groom to help, although there were several attending to horses in their stalls. Staggering slightly under the weight, he managed to regain his balance and made his way down to the other end of the building. As he went past the stall which held his lord’s new warhorse he paused to look for a moment, but scuttled hurriedly past when it snorted and pawed the ground. He was glad he didn’t have to saddle such a daunting beast on his own. But seeing it reminded him of the campaign. To think that they would soon be riding off to war! There would be knights, and campfires, and heroic battles … no doubt he would get to play a vital role, and would save his lord’s life in battle, to be rewarded with a knighthood and riches. He couldn’t wait!