Whited Sepulchres E-Book

C.B. Hanley

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 435

Beschreibung

1217: Commoner-turned-earl's-man Edwin Weaver has returned to Conisbrough Castle after his blood-soaked adventure in Lincoln. Now carrying a dagger for protection, he has no chance to rest, for preparations are already underway for a noble wedding. But his weapon will be little help against the armed band of outlaws terrorising the area. When the household marshal is murdered under the earl's own roof, and Edwin is asked to resolve the situation before the wedding plans can be jeopardised. Edwin is convinced that there is more to his death than meets the eye and, as he digs deeper, he realises that the killer's true target might be someone much closer to home. The third book in C.B. Hanley's popular Mediaeval Mystery series, following The Bloody City.

Leseprobe

For P.A.E., P.C.S.

and our friend from Fenoli.

Ye are like unto whited sepulchres,

which appear beautiful outward,

but are within full of dead men’s bones,

and of all uncleanness.

Matthew, ch. 23, v. 27

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Map

Acknowledgements

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Historical Note

Further Reading

About the Author

Copyright

Acknowledgements

One of the joys of publishing a book is being given the opportunity to say thank you to all those people who helped, in many different ways, during the creation of it. So here goes …

My editor Matilda Richards is a huge supporter of my work, and it’s brilliant to be able to talk to someone who empathises so completely not just on series direction, but also on vital things such as the correct placement of commas. Jamie Wolfendale and Maria Fallon, also of The History Press, have worked tirelessly to promote my books, and neither of them minded being contacted, probably more often than absolutely necessary, by an author who is a bit clueless about marketing.

Stephanie Tickle and Andrew Bunbury, my two best critical friends and readers, neither of them afraid to call a spade a spade, went through early drafts of Whited Sepulchres in great detail and offered many helpful insights and suggestions. The fact that they frequently came up with completely different and opposing comments about the same passages only made the redrafting process more interesting.

I’m very grateful to Sarah Jones, equine vet, for her advice on horses. My questions on how to train and ride them, and how they might react in certain circumstances, were probably fairly straightforward; the one on how somebody might go about putting down a crippled horse with only a hunting knife to hand probably less so.

My fellow historians (and fellow devotees of bacon sandwiches) Julian Humphrys and Sean McGlynn have been hugely supportive in all sorts of ways, with words of encouragement, practical advice and the sourcing of presentation and review opportunities. My non-mediaevalist colleagues at work, particularly Susan Brock, Caroline Gibson and Nick Monk, are also owed a debt of gratitude, basically for putting up with me going on and on about stuff which probably doesn’t interest them in the slightest …

Last but certainly not least, my thanks and love go to my husband James (who also added another map to his collection!) and our children. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

Chapter One

Conisbrough, June 1217

The wedding was only a week away, and there was still so much to do. Edwin splashed some water on his face and hands, pulled his new tunic over his head, grabbed the piece of bread his mother held out to him and ran out of the door, knotting his belt around his waist as he went.

It was high summer, the feast of St John the Baptist, and even at this early hour the sun was bright. As he jogged up the village’s main street towards the castle, Edwin appreciated the cool morning air, knowing that it wouldn’t last, and that it would be another blazing day later on. It wouldn’t be pleasant sitting in the steward’s cramped office, which tended to get a bit airless, but he supposed he should be grateful that he wouldn’t be out toiling in the furnace-like fields like most of the other villagers. And, thank the Lord, there would be no violence, no danger, and no death. It had been four weeks since he’d returned from Lincoln, and he could still smell the blood.

Since he’d been back, everything had been different. He hadn’t managed a whole night’s sleep, for a start, which was making him jumpy and increasingly lightheaded. He spent his nights tossing and turning on his straw palliasse, trying to blot out the visions of battle which filled his head. The heat didn’t help, but for the first summer in his life he wouldn’t leave the cottage door open overnight to let in some cool air. Instead he shut it fast, and had even fitted a wooden bar. His days weren’t safe, either: he couldn’t get over the feeling that he needed to look over his shoulder all the time, that horrors were hiding just out of his field of vision, reaching for the corner of his eye. Every shadow made him jump.

He shivered, and found to his surprise that he was already outside the door to the earl’s council chamber: he’d walked right through the castle wards, into the keep and up the stairs without even noticing. He was breathing heavily and the headache which had been hanging around for days was making him feel dizzy. He stood for a moment, leaning his head on the stone wall to soak up some of its coolness, before standing upright and inhaling. He smoothed down his hair and his tunic, and knocked.

The door was opened from within and Edwin was greeted with a smile by Adam, the earl’s junior squire, as he entered. Adam closed the door behind him and Edwin stood in silence until such time as the earl should notice him, exchanging a glance with Martin, who was looming in the corner. Martin nodded to him briefly, but he was busy trying not to make a noise as he scolded the new young page, who was fidgeting.

The earl was in the middle of a conversation with Sir Geoffrey.

‘… and so it is the only honourable thing to do.’

The old knight gestured. ‘But surely, my lord, a little unnecessary? After the recent events in Lincoln, the regent will be well aware that you have returned to his fold, and so will Prince Louis. There could be no doubt.’

Edwin felt a jolt at the mention of the word ‘Lincoln’. He had to get over this. It was a place which would doubtless be mentioned frequently in the months and years to come. He needed to put the terror behind him and be proud that he’d managed to serve his lord so well. He needed to drown out the sight and smell of the blood by thinking of the one more pleasant memory from his time away. He let his mind drift a little, encouraging it to recall the face, the summer-blue eyes … he sighed, and then remembered where he was and hoped that nobody had noticed. Fortunately the earl hadn’t, and was continuing.

‘No, I think it must be made more formal.’ His tone was firm. ‘I will send a letter to Louis over my seal, informing him that I am leaving his camp and have returned my allegiance to its rightful place with our lord king and his regent. A copy of this should also go to the regent himself, so that there can be absolutely no doubt about my loyalty. I don’t want questions to arise later which might endanger us all.’

Edwin could see that Martin was looking at him with a questioning expression, having finished his whispered rebuke of the page, and he surprised himself by realising that he knew exactly what their great lord was talking about. He was involved in affairs of the realm. How far he had come … he tried to intimate with an inconspicuous nod of his head that he would explain it all later, and Martin seemed satisfied.

The earl had moved on to brusque instructions to Sir Geoffrey. ‘Have Hamo arrange the scribing … oh no, better not to take him away from his other duties just at the moment, or this wedding will never happen. Father Ignatius will have to do it. Damn it!’ He slapped the table, making them all jump. ‘I need a dedicated clerk these days now that we all have to do so much reading and writing. I thought you were going to send to the abbey for someone?’

‘I did, my lord, and he should be here within the next few days.’

The earl looked as though he was going to make an angry retort, but he reined it in and merely nodded. ‘Good. And the sooner the better, although now is not an ideal time to be adding someone new to my close household.’ He poked at the pieces of parchment in front of him in a lacklustre fashion. ‘Anyway, speaking of household …’ He turned briskly and Edwin was glad he’d been paying attention.

‘Weaver, good.’ The earl always called him that, and Edwin was more or less getting used to it, although it was his father’s name, not his. Which was odd in itself, as he didn’t think his father had ever actually been a weaver, but he didn’t have time to think about it as the earl was continuing. ‘I have no particular duties for you this morning, so I’m sure you’ll be wanted down in the steward’s office. Is William still ailing?’

‘Yes, my lord. His injury is healing, but slowly.’

‘Hmm. Well, no doubt Hamo is doing an admirable job covering for him.’

Edwin couldn’t think of a polite answer to that, but he had to say something. ‘Yes, my lord.’

The corner of the earl’s mouth twitched. ‘Very tactful. And no doubt he is scratching everyone the wrong way as he goes about his business, and most men are looking for an opportunity to push him down the stairs as well?’

Edwin opened his mouth but it wasn’t his place to criticise a senior member of the household, so he said nothing and felt awkward.

But it seemed the earl was not testing him; he laughed and waved Edwin away. ‘Off with you, then. I trust you to keep some sort of order in my household. If I need you for anything I’ll send Thomas.’

Edwin bowed – he was getting slightly better at it but it still wasn’t perfect – and left the room.

As Martin watched Edwin leave, he thought to himself what an unusually good mood the earl had been in since he’d arranged a new marriage for his sister. It wasn’t as if he was a bad master at any time, really: it was just that he had an unpredictable temper – not surprising given that he was a Plantagenet, a family said to descend from the devil – and he tended to get irritated by small things, which didn’t make life easy for his squires. Still, at the moment all was sunshine, and the earl was full of smiles and carefree movements.

Martin wished his own life could be carefree, but it certainly wasn’t at the moment. He had two main problems which filled his thoughts from morning until night, and often during the hours of darkness as well. Firstly there was – but before he had time to dwell on it, his attention was distracted by Thomas, who seemed completely unable to stay still. And that, of course, was his other difficulty. If only the boy –

But his mind had wandered from the earl. Now he was the senior squire he needed to concentrate more on what his lord was talking about, for he had nobody to explain it to him in greater detail afterwards unless Edwin happened to be there, which he wasn’t all the time. How he longed to be out in the tiltyard practising his horsemanship or weapons training, but strength and skill alone didn’t make a good knight, or a good servant to his lord for that matter. He needed to have his wits about him. He put a firm hand on Thomas’s shoulder in an attempt to stop him squirming, and turned his attention to the earl and Sir Geoffrey.

The old castellan was speaking. ‘So you are expecting them all tomorrow, my lord?’

‘Yes. The guest quarters and the hall are going to be crowded, so you’ll have to arrange an encampment outside the walls as well. God knows that my dear sisters don’t like to travel without their attendants and their comforts.’

Martin glanced at him sharply in case the smile was about to disappear, but the earl still appeared relaxed. Martin felt some of his own tension ebb away – if the earl could be sanguine about having all his sisters and their families under the same roof at once then it wasn’t his place to worry about it. Although it would mean that –

The earl sounded satisfied. ‘After all that’s happened recently I should give thanks that we’re all still here to celebrate. It’s good to be home, with family about me, and to be among people I know I can trust.’

He settled himself back in the room’s one fine chair and flicked his fingers at Thomas, who stifled a yawn and moved with irritating slowness to the wine flagon on the side table. Martin watched as he tried to lift it, realised that he needed both hands to do so, replaced it, fetched a cup, thumped it down and then managed to spill the wine everywhere while trying to pour it. Then he handed the cup, still dripping, to the earl. Martin saw Sir Geoffrey’s hands twitch and almost felt him quell the urge to administer a cuff round the ear, but as the earl didn’t seem bothered, merely drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and then taking the wine without comment, he could do nothing. Thomas smirked at Martin as he resumed his place, licking some drops off the back of his hand. Martin felt his own temper start to rumble. Honestly …

But the earl had drained the cup and was already standing again, dismissing Sir Geoffrey with a wave. ‘Good. I leave the morning’s arrangements to you. Meanwhile I shall go for a ride,’ – Martin straightened, hope rising – ‘Adam, you can come with me. Go and saddle Gringolet.’ Adam was almost out of the room before he’d even finished bowing, grinning all over his face, and Martin watched him with resignation. The earl turned to him. ‘Martin, my sword wasn’t cleaned properly yesterday. I expect better of you – take Thomas and do it again.’

There was much that Martin could say on that subject, but the earl’s tone was verging on being clipped, so he bowed swiftly with a simple ‘Yes, my lord,’ and left the room, pulling the page with him.

Now he was really annoyed. Yesterday he’d been all set to give the earl’s sword a proper clean and polish, a job he enjoyed, but Thomas had begged to be allowed to do it, pleading to such an extent that Martin had given in – after all, the boy needed to practise. But then he’d left him to it, and he hadn’t checked that the task had been carried out properly. Obviously it hadn’t, but much as he wanted to lay the blame with the page, he recognised that it was his own fault for not making sure the work had been done.

He considered sending Thomas up to the earl’s bedchamber to fetch the sword, but realised that he’d probably have to wait all day, so he bade him stay where he was while he ascended himself, loping up the stairs two at a time. When he returned they both went to the armoury, where Martin pointed out – again – where the fine sand, the rags and the oil could be found. He watched as Thomas took his time selecting what was needed, and then they both went outside to find a quiet corner of the inner ward.

As soon as Martin withdrew the sword from the scabbard it took barely a glance to see why the earl had been so annoyed. ‘You didn’t clean this very well, did you?’

The boy said nothing, but the impudent what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look said it all.

A suspicion was growing in Martin’s mind. ‘In fact, did you work on it at all?’ The grin got wider. ‘You didn’t, did you? You begged me to leave you with it, and then you did nothing, just to get me into trouble. You little …’

He started to raise his hand, but Thomas skipped back and stuck out his tongue. ‘You can’t touch me!’

Martin let his hand drop. ‘Of course I can – I’m our lord’s senior squire and I’m supposed to be in charge of you and Adam.’ But even as he spoke, he knew it sounded defensive and that the boy, curse him, had got the better of him again.

‘Senior squire? You’re a nobody. But I’m my lord’s nephew, his oldest nephew, and when I’m grown up I’ll inherit lots of lands. If you hit me, I’ll tell my uncle about it and it’ll be you who gets punished, not me.’

Damn it, he was right. When Thomas had arrived, his mother had taken Martin to one side and explained in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if he laid a hand on the boy, and Martin knew that he had no choice but to obey. After all, who was he? And he’d have to try and stay out of the Lady Ela’s way once she arrived in case she started on the subject once more and began spoiling her brat again. No wonder he wasn’t looking forward to her arrival. But Thomas was such a wretch! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d made a few mistakes through lack of experience, but he was deliberately disobedient and malicious, playing on his position. But there was nothing to be done. He was of higher rank and that was how the world worked. Sighing, Martin picked up the rag and prepared to do the cleaning himself.

‘Right, I’ve had just about enough of this.’

Martin leapt to his feet, for the speaker was Sir Geoffrey, who had appeared without warning. The knight was carrying a bunch of birch twigs, which Martin recognised well from his youth. He hadn’t been subjected to it for many a year now, though, and the thought of being humiliated like a child again, and especially in front of the smug little imp, was almost too much to bear.

But Sir Geoffrey was speaking to Thomas. ‘You might think you’re too high and mighty to be disciplined, boy, but I’ve been training pages and squires all my life, and I know that nothing ruins a man so much as being spoilt when he’s a child. I beat our lord when he was younger, and I’m not afraid to do it to you. Our lord will want you to grow up into a respectable man and a good knight, and he won’t thank me if I let you get away with these games.’

For the first time Thomas lost some of his poise and began to look worried. He started to back away as Sir Geoffrey swished the birch.

‘But my mother …’

Sir Geoffrey snorted. ‘Your mother? What does she know of the raising of men? I’m well aware that she cosseted you until you were more than old enough to serve as a page – you’re nearly ten years old, in the Lord’s name, and most boys are sent away at seven – but that doesn’t mean that we need to bow to her wishes now.’

Thomas looked really panicked now, his voice squeaking. ‘But our lord is my uncle!’

‘Yes, your uncle. So you keep saying. But who’s your father? William Fitzwilliam of Sprotborough? Hardly a name to strike fear into our hearts. And besides, now that the Lady Isabelle is marrying again, your father is yet further removed from the earl and his estates. So you need to know that your whining about family and rank will serve you naught – you’ll be treated the same as every other boy who’s been in the earl’s service. Now, act like a man for once and take off your tunic.’

‘You’re not really going to beat me?’ The boy was tearful now.

‘No, I’m not.’

Thomas was so surprised that he stopped crying, and a look of cunning came over his face. ‘That is well, because – ’

The knight interrupted him. ‘I said I wasn’t going to. Martin is.’ And he turned and thrust the birch at Martin, who took it in his hand before he had a chance to think about it.

‘Me, Sir Geoffrey?’ He stared stupidly at the twigs.

‘Yes, you. I’ve been watching you as well, and you need to take a firmer hand now you’re the senior. You’re a good lad, but I think you’re in danger of being a bit soft. Giving Thomas his long-overdue beating will do you good.’

‘But – ’

‘Get on with it!’ The voice, whip-sharp, had ordered his life since he was a small boy, and he had no choice but to obey. He was taller by nearly a head than the knight, but there was no question as to where the authority lay.

He reached down with his left hand and took a firm grip of the snivelling Thomas’s arm. Then he raised the birch and brought it down across the boy’s back, not very hard. Thomas howled, much too loudly for Martin’s liking, and certainly disproportionate to the force he’d used.

Sir Geoffrey nodded. ‘Good. Again. Six strokes should do for now.’

Despite his earlier anger, Martin now felt like a bit of a bully as he raised the birch and brought it down five more times on the small back. Thomas’s wailing had drawn an audience, and he was now surrounded by men-at-arms and curious serving men, most of them smiling and cheering. Once Martin had finished, he was seized by an urge to throw the birch as far away as possible, but he took a deep breath and handed it back to Sir Geoffrey.

The knight took it but didn’t move. ‘And?’

It took Martin a moment to work out what he meant. He turned to Thomas, who had collapsed into a weeping heap, and towered above him as he spoke. He tried to keep his voice firm. ‘Now, you will clean and polish that sword as you were meant to, and I will inspect it before it goes back to the earl’s chamber. If it isn’t done properly then there will be consequences.’

Thomas stopped wailing and turned his head, and Martin could see that his eyes were completely dry. They stared at each other for a long moment. Martin hoped that he would never see a look of such venom directed at him again.

Shaken, he turned to leave the boy to his task, but had to push his way through the onlookers who were still gathered. Swearing under his breath, he used his greater size to shove them all aside; one or two of them started to protest, but their words died on their lips – there were, after all, some advantages to being the earl’s senior squire who would be a knight one day – and he felt a rough satisfaction. He still wasn’t looking where he was going, though, and before he knew it he had laid his hand on the arm of a much smaller figure. Horrified, he realised that he had been on the verge of pushing Joanna to the ground. As her eyes met his, startled, he could feel the redness burning in his cheeks, and he lengthened his stride and ran off without a word.

Damn it! He hardly ever got to speak to her without the Lady Isabelle being present, and now he’d missed his chance due to his own inability to control himself. Dear Lord, what was he going to do? This was, of course, his main problem, the one he’d been dwelling on for some time. As the Lady Isabelle’s companion, Joanna would have to accompany her away to her new home once she married, and then Martin would never see her again. The thought of this made him want to curl up and sob, but he had to keep his feelings in check. This was what life was like, and what could he do about it, in truth? He was only a squire, and although he was in one of the best positions in the country, his prospects were still fairly limited, with several more years of training before he would eventually become a knight and hopefully have a portion of his father’s estates settled on him. No, he had no hope of being able to support a wife in the near future, especially one who belonged to one of the realm’s nobler families. Moreover, his father and her cousin would never arrange such a match, and it was up to them, not him, to decide who would marry whom. And anyway, what if she didn’t even feel the same way about him? What if …?

His eyes started to prickle, and he knew he had to get away from all the people in the bustling inner ward. He was seventeen years old, a man, part of the earl’s personal household, and he should be acting like it, but he was going to lose his grip here and he needed to do it in private. He hurried away.

Edwin’s aching head was full as he left the council chamber and made his way down and out of the keep. He slowed and stopped as he reached the bottom of the outside staircase, blinded by the reflection of the sun off the bright stone. He sat on the last step and shielded his eyes for a moment. The inner ward was quieter than it had been in the last few months, for the masons had stopped work until the festivities were over, and they had all dispersed, travelling to their home villages and towns to see their families. They had now finished the kitchen – and thank the Lord for that, for Richard the cook would not have wanted the building work going on while he was trying to cater for a wedding – and apparently would move on to the great hall next. Edwin had no idea how that was going to work, or where everyone would eat while the work was going on, but fortunately that wasn’t for him to organise.

He forced himself to stand up. He was downcast at the thought of the day ahead. For all that he needed the peace and quiet and routine of normal life for a while, he was finding things strangely … dissatisfying. He didn’t know why or what exactly was bothering him, but it was like an itch he couldn’t reach. He’d always quite liked spending time in the steward’s office, helping William with his accounts; the scent of the room with its spice chests was as much the smell of home as the wood smoke and pottage of his house. But now the thought of being cooped up in that little room all day just didn’t appeal. Of course it didn’t help that the gruff but pleasant William wasn’t there, having injured his good leg in a fall: he was now completely unable to walk until it healed. He was laid up in his house in the village, driving his wife to distraction, and his place in the steward’s office had been taken temporarily by Hamo, the earl’s marshal and therefore the man who normally made his travel arrangements and dealt with the outdoor staff instead of organising domestic matters at the castle.

As Edwin entered the great hall he was enveloped in the pleasant aroma of the fresh rushes on the floor which had been strewn with sweet-smelling herbs, and he almost began to brighten as he inhaled the scent. He allowed himself to stop and close his eyes for a moment, but he could hear Hamo’s high-pitched voice emanating from the steward’s office, as he berated some luckless individual about the wrong type of wine having been brought up from the cellar that morning, so with a sigh he began to make his way past the bustling men in the service area at the back of the hall. He slowed, wondering if he could possibly think of an excuse to delay his entrance. He stopped entirely, letting the serving men move around him as they started their preparations for the mid-morning dinner, and thought that maybe if he just turned and crept out again, nobody would –

‘Ah Edwin, finally. Where have you been, boy?’

Hamo had emerged from the office, pushing another man out before him, and he was already plucking at Edwin’s arm. There would be no escape now. And being called ‘boy’ irked him more than he would like to admit, particuarly after all he’d been through in recent weeks. Still, orders were orders and the earl had instructed him directly to be here, so he should go with a cheerful heart. There was no point in getting ideas above his station about being given more interesting tasks to do, as though he were a squire or a man of rank. He should be grateful for the lot the Lord had provided him with. And he should keep telling himself that. Besides, interesting tasks involved danger and violence … he shivered and allowed himself to be shepherded into the office.

Once he got started it really wasn’t all that difficult, despite the headache. Hamo had been planning the meals for the next week, both for the wedding feast itself and for the days afterwards, but he was having difficulty adding up all the quantities of everything that would be needed. With the castle’s usual population swollen by guests, and the extra extravagance which would result from a wedding, an awful lot of provisions would be needed, and they weren’t all available in the castle’s stores – some would need to be sourced from further away. The ordering would be Hamo’s business, but nobody had a head for figures like Edwin, and he was often called upon by William Steward in this regard anyway. Generally he didn’t mind – he could never understand how others couldn’t do what he could do, to see all the neat columns of numbers in their head, and calculate and reckon while barely having to think about it. Glancing at the figures which Hamo had written on scraps of used parchment, he foresaw no problem. Now let me see, if you’re going to provide that many mutton pies and this much barley pottage for that number of people, and the ingredients are these, you’re going to need …

He hummed to himself as he went down the list, adding his own notes with a pen which wasn’t really sharp enough and which spluttered ink all over his hand. As he went through the plainer items which would be the fare served to the guests’ servants and retainers, he let his mind wander slightly. The wedding … the more he thought about it, the more odd it became. He just couldn’t believe who it was that the Lady Isabelle was marrying. Honestly, why would –

‘I tell you, you’re not having it!’

Edwin was distracted by Hamo’s voice as he squared up to a man whom Edwin recognised as one of the kitchen hands.

‘But I must take it – master cook has told me not to come back without it!’ The man’s voice had an edge of desperation, and Edwin could well understand why: Richard Cook was a large, red-faced man who had a choleric temper at the best of times, but the current added strain had caused all sorts of problems in the kitchen, and several of the scullery boys – and some of the higher-ranked cooks, for that matter – had been seen around the place sporting nasty bruises. The scene this man would encounter if he went back to the kitchen without whatever it was that Richard had demanded didn’t bear thinking about.

But Hamo had folded his arms. ‘I tell you, he is not having any more. This is the third time since yesterday morning that he has asked for more sugar – what is he doing, eating it raw? No, it is staying here and you will have to tell him to do without for today. He’ll need the rest for that big marchpane.’

‘But …’ The man was almost speechless. Edwin’s eyes went over to the chests stacked against the far wall where he knew the most precious spices were kept, and he could see that they were all firmly locked. Of course, this was normal – nobody would keep anything so valuable in an open area such as the kitchen, and the sugar, cloves, saffron, ginger, pepper and so on were always stored here under lock and key, under William’s personal supervision. But William and Richard, hard men both, had a kind of gruff agreement where William would basically give him whatever he asked for, knowing that the talented cook would get good value for money out of it and would produce delicacies which were appreciated by the earl and his family.

The man’s voice really was desperate now. ‘Then perhaps you would like to go to the kitchen and explain that to him, master marshal?’

Hamo assumed a supercilious air and drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much. ‘I? I go to the kitchen and speak to the cook? I think not, my man.’ He leaned forward and jabbed the other in the chest. ‘You will tell him, and you will take the consequences. If he doesn’t like it then he can complain to the earl himself if he wants to.’ He rocked back on his heels and smirked, and the man, admitting defeat, turned and shuffled out of the room, shoulders slumped.

Hamo span and saw that Edwin had stopped work and was watching. ‘Well? Have you finished, impudent boy? You might think you’re important now, but I know where you’ve come from and it would be easy to send you back out to the village if you don’t look sharp.’ He snapped his fingers under Edwin’s nose, forcing him to grit his teeth in an attempt to stay silent. ‘Let me see what you’ve done.’ Hamo snatched the parchment from Edwin’s hand and sniffed as he looked at the scrawls. ‘From what I can make out from your appalling hand, these look adequate, but you really need to work on your penmanship. How William puts up with you, I don’t know.’ He handed it back. ‘But you haven’t finished yet – get on with the reckoning for the earl’s own table before you think of moving anywhere.’ He sniffed again and stalked out of the room, leaving Edwin to grumble and draw his eating knife in order to sharpen the quill before he started again. As he started to do so his rope belt, which had been fraying for quite some time, snapped and fell to the floor, taking everything that was hanging on it with it.

Sighing, Edwin got down on his hands and knees. His purse – which wasn’t exactly heavy, containing only a couple of halfpennies and a small wooden spoon – and the eating knife in its plain leather sheath were right next to him, but he had to crawl under the table to get to the larger dagger in its ornate scabbard. This was probably what had caused the break: it was far too heavy for a piece of old rope, and should by rights have a proper leather belt, except that he didn’t own one. He’d only had the dagger a few weeks, but since the day he left Lincoln he somehow hadn’t felt able to take it off. Even when he lay down at night he kept it where he could put his hand on it at any moment.

Edwin sat back and drew out the dagger. He weighed it in his hand and stared at the blade, moving it from side to side so the light caught it. His hand was a little too small for the hilt, but it had a fine balance. Once more, memories leapt unbidden into his mind …

He had no idea how long it was before he realised that he was sitting on the floor under the table, and that questions were sure to be asked if anyone came in and saw him. He sheathed the dagger once more and threaded the rope through the scabbard loops and those of his eating knife and purse. He knotted the frayed ends together as best he could and hoped that would suffice until he could get hold of something more substantial.

Right. What was he supposed to be doing? Oh yes, the meals for the earl’s own table. Concentrate, now. At least this part of the list was interesting. The earl and his noble guests would be eating some real delicacies, and Edwin’s mouth watered at the mere thought of the quails, the capons, the venison, the marchpane and sweet custards.

But his other thoughts couldn’t be kept away, and his mind went back to Lincoln again. This time he managed to force away the blood and recall more pleasant memories. He wondered if he was in Alys’s thoughts as often as she was in his. He hoped so, but he couldn’t be sure. He was tortured by the thought that she would have forgotten him already, although deep down he knew that wasn’t likely after what they had been through together. But how would he ever see her again? It was a ride of two or three days back to Lincoln, and it wasn’t as if he was free to go gallivanting around the country whenever he pleased anyway. But still … the remembrance mingled in his mind with the pleasant perfume of the spices and the agreeable background of the delicious dishes he was reading about, and he was comforted a little. Whatever happened, he would always have his memories, and would be able to summon the image of her face and her smile …

He finished the list and put down the pen. He was about to wipe his inky hands on his tunic before he realised that it was the new one which his mother had made for his birthday today. She remembered every year that he had been born on the auspicious feast of St John the Baptist, and never failed to give him a gift and to remind him of how happy his arrival had made both her and his father, who had been much older than his wife and who had all but given up on the hope of a son. Knowing this always made Edwin feel safe and loved. He wiped his hands on his hose instead.

It was with an almost-cheerful whistle that he pushed back his stool and moved towards the door. He had been at the table a little longer than he thought, and men were already shuffling into the hall for dinner. The service area was crowded with servants bearing large platters, and Edwin stepped carefully around them to ensure he didn’t knock anything out of their hands. But not all was calm there: he could hear Hamo’s voice again, berating someone for something at the other side of the room.

He was determined not to let anything spoil his unaccust-omed mood of complacency and made up his mind to ignore it, but the conversation of two of the servants nearest to him caught his attention. He knew really that they were speaking only in jest, but he’d seen so much bloodshed recently that the words couldn’t help but chill him.

‘He gets worse and worse every day. I don’t know how much longer anyone’ll stand it.’

The other nodded as he shifted the weight of a stack of trenchers in his arms. He leaned over and spat on to the floor. ‘Not long. I’d certainly like to see ’im dead, and I’m not the only one, I can tell you.’

The room started to spin for a moment and Edwin stood still with his eyes closed until the men had moved away.

Chapter Two

Once Edwin felt calm enough to move, he made his way into the hall and found a place at one of the lower tables. Now that the hall was full of people, the scent of the herb-strewn rushes was buried under the smell of the dense crowd of hot, sweaty men, and the air was stale. He and the others stood while the earl entered, and once grace had been said and those at the high table were seated, he sat down himself and waited for the table servants to enter. As he waited he surveyed the earl and his party. The high table was relatively empty today, although of course it would be full once all the honoured wedding guests arrived. While they were here there would also be entertainment during the meals, which would provide an unusual and welcome change from the normal routine; Edwin had seen a minstrel arrive the day before, and wondered what sort of stories or songs he would perform. But for this meal the high table contained only the earl, the Lady Isabelle and her companion Mistress Joanna, Sir Geoffrey, Father Ignatius, and, in the place of honour at the earl’s right hand, Sir Gilbert de l’Aigle, the Lady Isabelle’s betrothed.

Edwin still couldn’t quite believe it. During his recent adventures in Lincoln and on the subsequent journey back to Conisbrough he’d become quite close to the knight, and the new situation seemed odd. He couldn’t quite work out why to start with, but after a while he’d realised it was to do with the way he ordered things in his own mind. He’d known vaguely that Sir Gilbert was a landowner, and not just a household knight, but he’d been fooled by the knight’s down-to-earth behaviour into thinking that he was almost a mere mortal like himself. So to find suddenly that he’d been sharing his journey with a man who apparently owned much of the realm’s south coast, and who was considered a worthy match for no less a wife than the earl’s sister, was something of a shock. Immediately Edwin had felt a chasm opening between him and his former companion, and they hadn’t spoken since the announcement of the forthcoming wedding had been made. Sir Gilbert was now a distant figure at the high table to be viewed from afar, not a man to whom one could chat about everyday matters.

Those at the high table were served first, of course, and Edwin watched as dishes of delicacies were brought in by servants, to be placed on a board to one side and carried to the table by the squires and pages. Sir Gilbert’s squire, Eustace, was a sober fellow who, as Edwin had noted on his journey north, performed his duties with a minimum of fuss, and he, Martin and Adam were moving around each other adeptly with the various foodstuffs. Martin was finally getting over his clumsiness, caused by growing so fast and being all elbows and knees, and Edwin noticed Sir Geoffrey casting an approving glance at him. Thomas the page, however, seemed to be getting in everyone’s way, much more than necessary. As Edwin watched, Thomas moved behind Martin and jostled his arm just as Martin was pouring wine for the Lady Isabelle. Some of it splashed on to the white tablecloth, and she admonished him sharply. Martin hung his head and mumbled something to her before stepping back. Edwin heard an intake of breath from next to him and turned to see that Richard, Sir Gilbert’s senior sergeant, was next to him and had noted the incident. He murmured something about what would happen to any boy under his command who did such a thing, and Edwin silently agreed, feeling sorry for his friend.

Edwin’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a large trencher of pottage and a cup of ale. He drew out his spoon and attacked it with gusto as he pondered the best method of staying out of Hamo’s way during the afternoon. Perhaps he would slip away quietly and go to survey the crops in his parts of the fields, as he hadn’t done that for a few days. Despite the fact that he was now to be awarded a substantial wage – about twice what he’d earned while standing in for his father as bailiff, an amount which in itself had been twice what a labourer would be given – as a reward for his position in the earl’s household, the winter would still be bleak for him and his mother if he didn’t manage to get his crops harvested properly in a few weeks’ time, and he couldn’t just leave it all to the man he’d hired to take his place in the fields.

The men at the lower tables finished their simple fare and got up to go back to work, leaving those at the high end of the hall to continue their meal, more courses of which were still arriving. Edwin gulped the last of his ale and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he filed out into the bright sunshine. He took a surreptitious glance around him to ensure that Hamo wasn’t watching – hopefully he’d still be inside supervising – and hurried off towards the gate. There he almost ran into Hamo himself, but fortunately the marshal was busy overseeing the unloading of some barrels from a cart. One of the barrels, a smallish one, slipped as the men manoeuvred it off the tailgate, and Hamo shrieked in alarm.

‘Be careful, for God’s sake! That’s the special hippocras for the wedding, to be drunk only by the bride and groom. We can’t get any more of it in time, and it’s worth more than you – I’ll see you flogged if anything happens to it!’

Edwin watched as the chastened men lifted the barrel very, very slowly and carried it with aching care towards the kitchen.

Hamo was outraged again. ‘No, not that way! Put it in my office behind the hall. Then I can keep my eye on it to make sure none of those thieving kitchen hands get near it.’

The men changed direction and Edwin was able to slip past behind Hamo, unnoticed. He hurried out of the inner gate. My office, thought Edwin, he’s already considering it his own. This didn’t bode well for William, and Edwin made up his mind to seek his uncle out later to check on his recovery. But first, the fields.

After about a mile and a half he was almost regretting his decision. Of course the idea of going to look at the strips which were furthest away from the village had been to stay as far away from Hamo as possible, but the disadvantage was that it was a long walk under the hot sun. He could feel the heat beating down on the back of his neck as he plodded up a hill, and his rather pale face would no doubt soon be burned. His head was boiling under its woollen cap, so he took it off, but then the burning sensation on his scalp got too bad, so he used it to wipe the sweat from his brow and then put it back on again. His headache wasn’t improving.

As he reached the top of the hill he had a fine view of the countryside all around. It was about another mile to the furthest fields, but he could see them from here: long strips with the golden grain baking in the sunshine, people moving to and fro among them as they pulled out the weeds which could choke the precious crop. He could see another figure on the road making its way towards him; squinting in the bright light, he thought it was a monk. Yes, it was, walking by the side of a horse – no, too small for that, a mule. Most monks in the land wore the black of the Benedictine order, but this one was in a white robe, meaning that he was a Cistercian, probably from the local abbey at Roche. Whoever he was, he was setting a good pace and their paths would soon cross. Between here and there the road dipped again and went through a thickly wooded area, and as he saw the monk enter it on the far side, Edwin thought that it might be a good place to dawdle and enjoy the shade for a few moments. He would probably meet him there and would have an excuse to stop and pass the time of day.

But wait, what was that? As he looked at the near side of the woods he became aware of movement which didn’t seem natural. Several men were crouched in the undergrowth – one of them had just stood up and that was what Edwin had noticed. They hadn’t seen him, but were looking the other way, towards the monk and his laden mule. Dear Lord. Robbers, and within a couple of miles of the castle itself! This was unheard of: he would have to tell Sir Geoffrey about it when he got back, but right now there was no time – he had to warn the monk. He drew his dagger and started to run.

He gathered speed as he went down the hill, but he wasn’t going to get there. He still had a good quarter of a mile to go. As he pounded along the road he shouted as loud as he could, making himself hoarse as the dust flew up and caught in his throat, and waved his arms to try and alert the monk’s attention. The robbers broke their cover as they heard him, and came into the road – three of them. They looked round, but saw how far away he was and turned towards the monk anyway. He had seen them now and had stopped, his mule shying in fright as armed men ran towards it. He had the presence of mind to throw the rein into a thick bush so that it caught there before he turned to face the oncoming attackers. Edwin could see the whole picture laid out in front of him, but he was never going to get there. A man of God! How could they? His chest felt as though it was going to burst, but he tried to increase his speed, pumping his arms and sucking in huge breaths. It was no good. The men reached the defenceless monk.

And then something so extraordinary happened that Edwin wasn’t quite sure whether he’d seen it correctly. Maybe it was the effect of the sun, the dust and the midges clouding his eyes, or the headache, but as he watched, the monk reached round to the back of the mule, which was shying in fright but unable to pull its rein away from where it was entangled, and yanked. For one bizarre and dizzy moment Edwin could have sworn that he’d pulled its leg off. He skidded to a halt, gasping, and shook his head. As his vision cleared he could see that what the monk had in his hand was in fact a stout cudgel, two or three feet long. Well, thank the Lord he wasn’t seeing things, but really, a lump of wood wouldn’t be much use against three armed men – he had to get there and help. He gulped a huge breath and started to jog forward again. But as the monk stood to receive the assault, he swung the stick expertly in his right hand and stepped into the attack.