Edwin was entering the garden of his home when, to his surprise, Sir Geoffrey came out of the house.
They both stopped and stared for a moment before the knight recovered himself. ‘Edwin. I just came to see how your mother was getting along now your father is gone. If she needed anything.’
He spoke in a level tone, but were his cheeks faintly red beneath his grey beard? Edwin was so taken aback by the sight of Sir Geoffrey, knight of the manor of Rochford, commander of the castle garrison, right hand of the earl, standing there among the beans, that he couldn’t open his mouth.
Sir Geoffrey put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was going to look for you anyway. I wanted to talk to you about these outlaws. Come.’
Edwin allowed himself to be led up the garden path. His insides twisted slightly. ‘You don’t need me to … question them, do you?’
The knight shook his head. ‘No. Once we had them in the cells and they knew there was no chance of escape, they talked readily and we didn’t need to persuade them at all.’
Thank the Lord for that. He didn’t think he’d have the stomach for trying to get confessions out of men who didn’t want to give them. Once, when he was little, there had been a trial by ordeal in the village; his father had told him in no uncertain terms to stay away, but, curious, he’d crept among the legs of the crowd. The stench of burning flesh and the strangled noise emanating from the throat of the man trying not to scream as he carried the red-hot iron bar were branded into his memory. He shivered even now.
Sir Geoffrey was continuing. ‘As we thought, they’re French. They were fugitives from Lincoln – most of them fled south after the battle, but a few headed this way. Apparently they reckoned they’d have a better chance as the land wasn’t razed and there weren’t people lying in wait for them for revenge.’
At the name of the town Edwin felt a bit dizzy and stopped, bending over. By now they were by the village green, and fortunately Sir Geoffrey didn’t notice – he’d already stepped away to hail Robin the carpenter, who was catching the rays of the evening sunlight to work on something on trestles outside his workshop. It was a coffin.
That didn’t help. Edwin breathed deeply. The men who had caused terror and death in the area were normal men. They had done evil things, but they were ordinary villagers who had been called up by their lords to fight in a war they knew nothing about. Some of them might have wives and children back home. Their lords had been captured and would be ransomed – he’d heard it himself as he stood in the shadow of the great cathedral in Lincoln. But for these common men there would surely be no other penalty than death. They had been pulled from their homes, had killed and damaged, and now the people of Conisbrough would want revenge. And the wives and widows left in France would teach their children to hate, so that they too would want revenge in the years to come, and the wheel would turn once more.
Sir Geoffrey finished talking to the carpenter and returned. Edwin tried to look normal.
‘It’s nearly done – we should be able to bury Hamo tomorrow.’
That would be good. It was never wise to have bodies lying around too long in this weather. ‘You won’t send him back to his family?’
The knight shook his head. ‘It’s too far, and a dangerous journey through land still filled with Frenchmen. I won’t waste another man’s life conveying a corpse – we’ll bury him here and send word to his family.’
Edwin looked around the village. It was peaceful in the late afternoon sunshine, children playing and squealing outside their homes, women moving in and out of their houses, some chatting to each other, the smell of woodsmoke and pottage as the supper cooked over the hearth, awaiting the return of the men who had laboured in the earl’s fields since daybreak. It was as good a place as any to lie for your eternal rest.
Sir Geoffrey spoke. ‘God knows there will be enough deaths and burials in the next few days.’ Edwin looked at him questioningly. ‘The woman and child tonight – the babe will have to go to its grave after dark, so Father Ignatius will bury its mother just before. And I’ve just told Robin to spread the word about the Frenchmen: now they’ve talked, we’ve no further use for them. We’ll hang the lot at first light, and our lord wants the whole village out to watch, to show what happens to those who break his laws. But there will be no burial for them – they’ll hang until they rot, as a lesson to others.’
He strode away, and Edwin tried to stay steady on his feet. Fortunately William Steward was hauling himself across the green, so Edwin went to speak with him, glad of the excuse to move.
They sat down on the edge of the platform of the pillory, and Edwin brought him up to date with the news of the day, such as it was. He tried to quell his panic at his lack of progress, and faltered into silence. As the sun started to set they watched the men returning from the fields.
The church bell began to toll, and gradually people emerged from their houses and made their way over. Edwin stood to follow them, heaving William to his feet and slowing his pace so his uncle could keep up.
He joined the end of the mournful procession as it wound round the outside of the church to a grave which had been dug close to the wattle fence marking the edge of the churchyard. Father Ignatius led the way, followed by John and three others carrying the parish coffin, then young John, with Godleva just behind carrying the tot, and Cecily carrying a tiny bundle wrapped in linen; they were followed by more or less the entire village – a good turnout for a family most of them didn’t know well, a show of solidarity.
Edwin watched as the woman’s shrouded body was lifted out of the coffin and lowered into the ground. Young John was sniffing and rubbing his eyes, while his little sister howled in Godleva’s arms. Their father stood with clenched fists as Father Ignatius said the prayers for the dead, and men shovelled earth into the grave. Then, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the last glow of the daylight bathed the scene, the priest led the way out of the gate and round to the outside of the graveyard, where a row of tiny mounds were lined up against the fence. There could be no burial in consecrated ground for an unbaptised infant, one still with the mark of original sin on it, but Father Ignatius was a merciful man, and he had always allowed such babes to lie as close to the churchyard as he could. As they stopped by the pitifully small hole in the ground, Edwin realised they were directly opposite the place where John’s wife now lay, so that she and her child would be separated only by a few yards as they slept their eternal rest. Edwin closed his eyes and prayed as hard as he could that the child, innocent as it was, would not suffer the flames due to its unbaptised state. Surely the Lord could not be so cruel as to treat it the same as the godless and the heathens?
By now the crowd of villagers was drifting away – the burial of a baby was not an uncommon occurrence, and they had to rest before their labours started again on the morrow. Still, Edwin noticed that those of the villagers who had their children with them were holding them close. Finally, John and his family were led away by Godleva’s father, and Edwin was left with his mother, his aunt and uncle, and Father Ignatius on his knees beside the grave. Cecily was upset, having watched the poor thing live and die within a few breaths, and his mother and William took her away.
Father Ignatius stood and brushed the earth from the knees of his habit. He sighed. ‘Come, Edwin, come in and sit with me a while. I’ve buried many children in my time, but sometimes it’s difficult to know why the Lord acts as He does.’
Edwin followed him through the darkness to the small house attached to the church. Once inside, Father Ignatius lit a rushlight and placed it on the table, where it spluttered unevenly, casting a small puddle of smelly light. He retrieved a flagon and two pottery cups, and poured a small amount of ale into each.
There was a melancholy silence for a few moments. Edwin felt he had to break it.
‘How was Aelfrith’s mother?’
Father Ignatius sipped his ale and exhaled slowly. ‘She is well, thank the Lord. She needed comfort, but she will live to see another day.’
Edwin crossed himself and murmured thanks, but he wasn’t surprised. Aelfrith’s mother was well known, and the Father must have been aware that he’d have a long walk in the sun for nothing. But he looked more relaxed now that Edwin had changed the subject, so now might be a good time to try and continue the conversation they’d had earlier.
‘So, Father, earlier when you were called away, we were speaking of Hamo.’
The priest coughed a little and put his cup down. ‘Were we?’
‘Yes, we were. And you were about to tell me of what he’d said to you.’
Father Ignatius made an uncomfortable movement on his stool. ‘You know very well I can’t tell you anything the man told me under the seal of confession.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Sir Geoffrey said he had seen you talking together several times, and he can’t have been in confession all the time.’
‘Well …’
Edwin could feel his temper being tested. He put his own cup down. ‘Father. Do you remember the last time I had to ask you for information? A few weeks ago?’
Even in the dim and flickering light, Edwin could see the priest’s face turning white. He crossed himself again and looked at Edwin, who tried to maintain his stern face. He still wasn’t very good at this. Still, at least there was no option of having to resort to violent tactics with a man of God, like there might have been with the Frenchmen earlier. He continued to stare, and let the silence develop.
Eventually he had his reward. Father Ignatius looked down. ‘All right. I don’t think he meant anyone else to know, but as he mentioned it in conversation and not during the sacrament of confession, then I will tell you. He was considering taking holy orders.’
Edwin felt his mouth opening in shock.
Father Ignatius nodded. ‘Yes. Hamo was going to become a monk.’
Joanna prayed with more fervour than usual as the meal was set before her. Dear Lord, what a lucky escape they’d had.
Isabelle had been in hysterics, unable to stop screaming. Joanna had tried in vain to comfort her as Sir Roger, who was nearest, flung himself from his horse and bent desperately over the prone man as the rest of the noble party dismounted and gathered round.
‘He breathes!’
Joanna’s relief was such that she staggered, even as she tried to hold Isabelle upright. Thank the Lord that Sir Gilbert had managed to fall sideways, away from the horse, otherwise he could have been crushed. Sir Roger, on his knees beside his friend, looked up at the earl. ‘I think he’s just knocked himself out, my lord. I can see no blood and his head doesn’t seem to be dented. Perhaps we could arrange to carry him back to the castle?’
The earl jerked his head at the chief huntsman, who had been hovering in the background. ‘See to it.’ He turned to Isabelle and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Come now, he’ll be fine.’ He seemed outwardly calm, but Joanna could see the worry in his eyes. She looked down before he might spot her staring at him, focusing instead on the dusty grass.
While the men were fashioning a makeshift stretcher from branches and cloaks, Sir Roger stood. He looked from Sir Gilbert to the stricken horse, now shaking all over and looking on the verge of collapse. After a glance at the earl he drew his hunting dagger with some reluctance. Joanna had the presence of mind to look away but she could still hear everything as he spoke softly and comfortingly to the animal before slitting its throat. The Lady Ela gave a cry as there was a choking noise and the carcass thumped to the ground, Sir Roger murmuring gently all the while, but her husband had little sympathy for her. ‘They all go for dogs’ meat in the end.’ He turned away.
Joanna half-opened her eyes to see the blood spreading over the dry ground and Sir Roger, his sleeve splattered with red, wiping his dagger. The Lady Maud comforted her sister as Joanna supported Isabelle.
As they had made their careful way back, Sir Gilbert was already stirring, his eyes flicking from side to side. Joanna had looked around her as they entered the village, expecting their arrival with the injured man to cause a stir, but the streets were deserted: everyone seemed to be in the churchyard. So they wound their way up to the castle and the huntsmen carried him inside. Joanna prayed all the while, and the Lord listened: by the time Sir Gilbert had been laid in his bed in the guest quarters he was alert enough to recognise them and to ask what had happened to his horse. His attempts to get up were prevented by Isabelle, who, calmer now, told him firmly to stay put. He sank back on to the pillow, probably relieved if the unfocused look in his eyes was anything to go by.
And now they sat without him at the high table in the hall, less boisterous than they would usually be after such an outing. The talk was not of how many birds they’d killed, but of the near miss they’d had. Further up the table, William Fitzwilliam was shaking his head and saying that Sir Gilbert should have been more careful. The Lady Maud, serious for once, nodded in agreement. Henry de Stuteville, on her other side, leaned across. ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t have done you much harm if something had happened to him, would it?’ He sat back and pushed a huge piece of spiced beef into his mouth, dribbling some of the sauce down his beard. Joanna gazed at William Fitzwilliam, who hadn’t answered this comment, and wondered again at the scene she’d witnessed in the chapel. What had he been praying for? But she couldn’t tell, and his face gave no sign.
Her attention was caught by Sir Roger, who was asking if she would like the beef dish herself. From the patient look on his face she guessed he’d probably said it two or three times already, so she thought she’d better pay attention to the meal. She wondered what the hall and the food would be like at Sir Gilbert’s castle of Pevensey, which was where she and Isabelle would live after the wedding. Would it be as big as this? Surely not. Although Sir Gilbert was an important man he wasn’t an earl and a cousin of the king, not like the lord earl who had vast estates and power. She was tired after the riding this afternoon, and, added to the lateness of tonight’s dinner, she was starting to feel dozy. Her mind drifted.
As the meal drew on, the minstrel took his place again. His voice and his delivery were still as good as before, but this time Joanna hardly listened. After the emotion of Roland’s death, the ensuing scene of battle and revenge held no attraction for her, although the men at the table were enjoying it. It was a shame Martin wasn’t here – he’d probably have liked it. She had missed him serving at table, but she supposed she’d better get used to it.
A babble of sharp words erupted from nearer the centre of the table. William Fitzwilliam had obviously made some comment about the battle which was being narrated, and the Lady Ela was laughing at him. ‘Oh, William, as if you could be one of those heroes! If you were there you’d be on the end of a Saracen lance by now! Either that or you’d be hanging around the edge because you were too cautious to join in.’
Joanna caught the sharp intake of breath from the other men. Surely even the mild-mannered, browbeaten William Fitzwilliam wasn’t going to let that one pass by? But other than clench his fists under the table he did nothing; and after a brief pause, everyone turned their attention to the minstrel again.
Edwin couldn’t have heard that right. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, Hamo was going to become a monk.’
Edwin sat and gaped. He couldn’t have thought of a more unlikely answer if he’d tried. The supercilious Hamo, fussy about every little thing, preening himself in his smart clothes, a monk? There must be some mistake.
Father Ignatius smiled. ‘I see you are dumbstruck. But the Lord can inspire a vocation in the unlikeliest of places.’
Edwin still couldn’t believe it. His mouth was still open, but no words came out. He tried again. ‘Hamo? But he’s … he was … so … I don’t know, I can’t think of the word. But a monk? Really? I didn’t think he was at all pious.’
Father Ignatius looked at him in some surprise. ‘Edwin, Edwin. You’re so childlike in your innocence, and you’re mistaken on two counts. Firstly, Hamo was more godly than you give him credit for – what you saw was the outer man, but tell me, how well did you really know him? He wasn’t fulfilled in his life here, but nobody except me knew it, as he had no friends in whom to confide.’
Edwin felt ashamed. He’d already noticed that nobody seemed to care that Hamo was dead, and it seemed nobody had cared that much when he was alive, either. And he, Edwin, was as much to blame as anyone: he’d only ever tried to avoid Hamo, so he wouldn’t get shouted at or talked down to. How much better might things have been if he’d made an effort to find out more about him? But now it was too late. He vowed to himself that he would never make the same mistake again with anyone else.
Father Ignatius nodded to him, as though aware of his thoughts, and continued. ‘And secondly, although it pains me to say it, rich men don’t take the cloth because of an excess of piety – or at least, few of them do. No, they do it for power and influence. A younger son will never inherit his father’s estates, so he has a choice – he can content himself with a few offcuts of land handed down, surviving by renting out his sword to others, or he can enter the Church and become a prior, abbot or bishop of huge influence. Some bishops are close advisors of the king, and even abbots can wield huge amounts of power. The abbey at Roche is not even close to being one of the largest in the kingdom, and yet it has lands and holdings in five counties. Imagine Hamo seeing himself in charge of all that.’
Now that made a lot more sense. Edwin could quite easily visualise Hamo in a white habit with a cross round his neck, fussing over the details of the tithes coming in from all over the place.
Another thought struck him as he looked at the priest in the flickering candlelight. ‘You said a younger son won’t inherit lands. Was Hamo a younger son? You mentioned brothers earlier – what do you really know about him?’
Father Ignatius shrugged. ‘Only what he told me. As far as I’m aware, he was the youngest of four. He said that all of his brothers were dead: one was a monk and died some years ago; another had been dismissed from his eldest brother’s service in some kind of disgrace and had subsequently been killed in a brawl. And finally the eldest brother died fairly recently – he had a letter about it just a few weeks ago. He’d been considering becoming a monk and asked me on several occasions how he might go about it and how much he would need as a donation.’
As Edwin considered this, the rushlight burned right down, gave a final splutter, and went out. He realised how dark it was.
He stood, groping for the edge of the table. ‘Father, I’ll leave you now. After all you’ve done today you’ll need some sleep before the morning, and the Lord knows I’ve plenty to think about myself.’
He felt rather than saw the priest making the sign of the cross in the air. ‘God bless you my son, and may He help you find out what happened to Hamo so he can rest in peace.’
Edwin moved cautiously towards the door. Once he’d opened it there was a bit more light, but not much – the moon was on the wane. Still, he was able to see across the green towards home. He lingered over his walk in the cool air, feeling no need to go in, as he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Instead he returned to the edge of the pillory platform, where he’d sat earlier with William. It hadn’t been used for its proper purpose for some while, so it was fairly clean, the wood unstained by the mud and filth which gleeful children – and some adults too – would throw at those unfortunates imprisoned there. He lifted himself on to it and sat, his feet dangling.
After some while he leaned back, breathed in the cool night air and looked up at the stars in the heavens. The village was silent – those who laboured all day slept soundly at night – and he was a little calmer. He thought about Hamo and his plans to become a monk. It was something he’d considered himself once or twice, but as his father’s only son he’d had to put it aside, and besides, they probably wouldn’t let him in anyway. No, his duty was to marry and have sons to continue the family line, to look after him and his mother in their old age, if they should reach it. Marriage … Alys’s face appeared before him as clearly as if she were standing there, those blue eyes looking at his with what he imagined to be love, and he actually started to reach out his hand to take hers, before she disappeared back into the darkness.
The gibbet had been erected at the crossroads just west of the village, where the Thrybergh road met the one which led from Kilnhurst to Ravenfield. It was large, a frame made of thick, rough-cut beams which would be sturdy enough to take a lot of weight. Eight ropes were slung over the top, each ending in a noose which dangled limply in the morning air. A ladder leaned against one of the upright posts.
Although the day promised to be hot once more, it was early, barely past dawn, and still cool. Edwin shivered. He’d fallen into a doze on the pillory platform and woken in a panic just before dawn, wondering where he was and terrified, in his half-asleep state, of the pillory above him with its holes like two eyes and a gaping mouth. He’d staggered back home in time to find his mother just getting up, and he felt even less rested than he had before. His eyes were full of grit, and his head was dizzy as he stood with the other villagers, who had all been summoned to witness their lord’s justice. Some of them looked apprehensive, children clutching at their parents’ legs; others were belligerent, including John, who stood at the front of the group, feet planted apart, arms folded. Young John was next to him, standing firm despite his trembling legs, his young sister enfolded within the circle of his good arm.
Edwin had never seen an actual hanging before, although, like most people who’d ever travelled more than a mile or two, he had seen both fresh and long-dead corpses swinging from their nooses at crossroads, food for the crows. He’d certainly never seen such a large gibbet and couldn’t help looking at the construction and trying to calculate whether it would be strong enough.
The crowd parted as the sound of hoofbeats approached. The earl rode at the front of a procession which included Sir Geoffrey, Sir Roger, Sir Gilbert – who still looked a little dazed after the accident Edwin heard he’d had yesterday – Henry de Stuteville and William Fitzwilliam. Their squires followed behind, also mounted, though not Martin, still presumably confined to his bed. Thomas trailed along behind them on his pony. Brother William, on his mule, brought up the rear. All the village men removed their hats as the party halted and drew up to one side of the gibbet. Behind the riders there arrived Father Ignatius, on foot, followed by the condemned men, hands bound behind them, each with a castle guard on either side. Some bore bruises; some stumbled, either in pain or in fear of what was to happen, needing the support of their captors; but two held their heads high as they marched, and another struggled against his captors, scrabbling his feet on the ground and throwing his weight back and to the side in a vain attempt to free himself. As they passed, some of the villagers looked away or crossed themselves, but others shouted or spat at the men, surging forward in anger. One of the prisoners stopped and doubled over as a well-aimed stone smacked into his forehead, slicing a cut above one eye; his guards hauled him upright again and pulled him onwards, blood streaming down his face. The man who had been struggling against his captors shouted something unintelligible and tried to throw himself into the crowd, but he was prevented by the soldiers, who wrestled him back and dragged him towards the gibbet. The potential for mob violence hung in the air, but the earl held up one hand, and the villagers quietened immediately.
All the prisoners were now standing under the crossbeam, looking up at the nooses or down to the ground. The earl nudged his horse forward and spoke, without the need to raise his voice.
‘These men are enemies of our king and our realm.’ He spoke in French, and paused while his statement was repeated in English by Brother William. ‘They are outside the law and deserve no mercy.’ Pause. Nods and murmurs from the crowd. ‘They have caused damage and death to people under my care, and they will be punished accordingly.’ Pause. Growls from the village men. ‘Know, all of you, that I will protect you and that none shall break the law on my land without suffering the consequences.’ More growls, louder this time. In what Edwin guessed was a pre-arranged move, Sir Roger urged his horse forward towards the earl. ‘My lord, I beg of you to allow these men to be shriven before their deaths. Their lives are rightly forfeit, in vengeance, and the Lord shall judge them hereafter, but in allowing them to confess you demonstrate both justice and mercy.’ He moved back.
Showing no surprise either at the request or at the formality of the words, the earl nodded and waved his hand at Father Ignatius, who turned to face the condemned and began to speak the prayer. Deus, Pater misericordiarum …
Finally he got to Et ego vos absolvo a peccatis vestris, made the sign of the cross in the air over all the condemned men, and stepped back. Everyone looked at the earl, who nodded, and the guards of the first man, one of those who had been stumbling, stepped forward and placed the noose around his neck, jerking it tight. The man’s face was completely white, eyes staring past the villagers into the hereafter. One of his arms hung at a strange angle, and Edwin suddenly recognised him as the man who’d been struck with Brother William’s cudgel during the encounter on the road. With his last breath he said a few words in French, which drifted across the cool morning air. Edwin translated under his breath for the benefit of his mother and those close to him. ‘He said may the Lord have mercy on his soul.’ Surreptitiously his mother made the sign of the cross, but Edwin didn’t dare in case the earl saw his movement and interpreted it as sympathy for the outlaw.
The two guards holding the rope then took the strain and started to haul, walking backwards and lifting the choking, kicking man into the air where he dangled, spinning around and jerking convulsively as the noose tightened around his throat. Once his feet were about three or four feet in the air they stopped pulling; another man climbed the ladder, and between them they tied the rope around the crossbeam. The two on the ground stood with their arms folded to watch the death throes; the other descended and moved the ladder along one place. And all the while the hanging man kicked and writhed.
Edwin hoped he wasn’t going to be sick. He could hear that someone behind him was doing exactly that, but he couldn’t turn round to see who it was, for his eyes were riveted to the horrific spectacle in front of him. He’d had no idea that it would take so long for someone to die by hanging, but the man was still alive, thrashing at the end of the rope, his face turning purple, mouth open in a silent scream. His eyes bulged further and further out of his head, and his tongue came out of his mouth like a blackened serpent. Then there was a stench as his bowels emptied themselves on the ground underneath him, and a sudden movement as the next man along in the line fainted and fell to the ground. His guards looked uncertainly at the earl.
The earl, unmoved by what he was witnessing, waved. ‘Yes, yes, get on with it. We don’t want to be here all day.’ The guards placed the noose around the unconscious man’s neck and hauled him up, tying the rope off as their fellows had done and watching the dead weight swing.
The third man said the same words as the first, which Edwin translated again, and then he too was heaved into the air, his body in spasms as it danced with death. The fourth man, a heavy-set individual of middle age, looked oddly composed, and as the noose was placed around his neck he looked straight at John and spoke several deliberate sentences.
Several people around Edwin were looking at him, and he tried not to attract the attention of any of the nobles as he spoke under his breath. ‘He said he is sorry for what happened. He never wanted to come here, he was made to by his lord, he left his wife and family behind and he will never see them again. May the Lord watch over them.’
By the time Edwin had finished speaking the man was already dangling, and all eyes turned to the next in line. This was the man who had been struck by the stone, and the blood coursed freely down his face as his bound hands couldn’t wipe it away. Man? No, a boy – not even Edwin’s own age. His knees were giving way beneath him and as one of his guards held him up so the other could fit the noose, he soiled himself in terror. One or two of the hardier villager men guffawed, and for a reason he couldn’t fathom, Edwin was sorrier for the boy for his public embarrassment than he was for his imminent death. The boy whispered a solitary word just before he was jerked off his feet, which was so recognisable Edwin didn’t need to interpret it: ‘Mother’.
The sixth man was the one who had been struggling against his bonds and his captors. He was still kicking at them and bellowing out defiant words. Edwin’s blood turned cold as he listened, and the earl showed some emotion at last: he urged his horse forward a pace and shouted at his men. Three other soldiers held the man down as his head was forced into the noose; he was still roaring his defiance but it stopped suddenly as five guards together yanked at the rope and he shot into the air. Not wanting to displease their lord, the guards of the final two men in the line did their work at the same time, and soon all eight outlaws were swinging. The first three were already dead; the fourth followed a moment after. The defiant one, heavier than his fellows and having been jerked off his feet at some speed, seemed to die almost immediately, his head hanging at an angle. Edwin forced himself to look straight ahead as the final two kicked and thrashed their way into oblivion, their limbs growing still.
That just left the boy in the middle, who was still spasming weakly, blood dripping from him to mingle with the mess on the ground, tongue protruding, eyes bulging and his face, Edwin would swear, wet with tears. Beside him his mother sobbed and he put his arm around her. William Steward, upright still on his crutches, muttered under his breath that the smaller, younger ones always took the longest.
Edwin looked over at the earl, who was being spoken to by Sir Roger. Eventually the earl nodded, and two of the guards stepped forward to hold the boy’s legs and pull down as hard as they could. The extra weight choked the final bit of life out of him and he was released from his struggle.
For a long moment nobody moved except for the dangling corpses, and then the earl and his companions started to move. Their horses, frightened by the scent of blood or maybe by the sight of the swinging bodies, were restless. The earl made a final announcement, his voice like stone. ‘So perish all who disobey me, who break my laws and disturb the peace of my lands.’ He nodded to the villagers as he turned his horse’s head. ‘You may go. Justice has been done.’ He rode off, followed by his companions and their squires. Adam looked as sick as Edwin felt. Little Thomas seemed barely able to stay in his saddle, and for the first time Edwin felt sorry for the boy as his pony trailed further and further behind the large horses of the men as they headed back up the road.
The villagers started to drift off behind their lord, but Edwin stayed where he was. Now there was no danger of looking as though he was betraying anyone, he allowed himself a prayer for the souls of the executed men. As he finished, William started to move away, with a groan for his legs, stiffened from standing so long. He stopped and turned to Edwin. ‘What did he say?’
Edwin tore his gaze away from the place of death. The sun was fully up, warmth spreading over the earth, and flies were already starting to buzz around the bodies. ‘Who?’
William gestured. ‘Him. The one who was shouting.’
‘He said – ’ Edwin stopped and swallowed. His voice was hoarse. ‘He said he defies us, lords and all. His lord and his prince will invade again and succeed this time. England will be a smoking ruin and his brothers in arms will live to see the birds feasting on our corpses.’ Several other villagers had stopped to listen, and they murmured among themselves. Edwin heard again the man’s final words before the breath was choked out of him. ‘He said the war isn’t over yet.’