Martin hurried along to the armoury. When he arrived, there was a press of men outside being issued with weapons. Sir Geoffrey stood among the melee, issuing brief orders. He saw Martin approaching. ‘Edwin has told you what’s going on? Good. Find your gear – you can come with me. It will do you good.’
Martin could barely believe his luck. He shoved his way through the press and into the armoury. It was dark in there, and he tripped over a man who was bending to pick something off the floor. Apologising, he made his way over to the corner where his own equipment was. Once his eyes had adjusted a little more he could see it properly, and he started to lift it down. Damn it, he could do with Adam or Thomas here – he couldn’t put it all on by himself. He grabbed the nearest man and bade him help, shrugging his way into his gambeson even as he spoke, the man helping to pull the thick, heavy garment down over his shoulders so that it hung properly to his knees. Martin felt a little immobile, and briefly considered not putting on the hauberk, but Sir Geoffrey would no doubt chide him if he wasn’t wearing his mail, so he allowed himself to be helped into it. He smelled the metal surrounding him as it was lifted over his head and arms, and he wriggled around to make sure it all fell into the correct position. Lord, but it was heavy – even though it was far too short for him and barely reached to mid-thigh. He needed to practise wearing it more often.
He raised his arms above his head, and his assistant put a belt around his waist and pulled it as tight as he could. Martin felt himself almost jerked off his feet, but once he put his arms down again he could feel the difference – the tight belt took much of the weight of the hauberk. He shrugged his shoulders again and waved his arms to make sure he could move them freely. Good. He picked up the nearest shield and slung it round his neck by the long guige, pushing it around so it hung at his side. He peered at the pile of plain swords which were kept for use by the garrison – proper sharp ones, not the blunt things which the squires generally used for practice – and picked out one which looked a little longer than the others. He drew it from the scabbard and hefted it, feeling the balance. What little light came into the room reflected off the blade, and for a moment he imagined himself as the hero Roland with his precious sword Durendal. When he was a knight and got a sword of his own, maybe he’d give it a name, too.
The other man was staring at him. He sheathed the blade again and belted it around him, so the weight rested comfortably on his left hip.
And that was about it – much quicker than arming the earl. There was no point trying to put on a pair of chausses, as he knew from experience that none of them were long enough for him, and he wasn’t entitled to a surcoat of his own, so he merely jammed the padded arming cap on to his head, picked up a helm and tucked it under his arm, and walked back outside, pushing his hands into his mail gloves as he did so and trying not to drop anything.
He could feel his heart thumping even through all the layers of padding and armour. He was going out on a real mission like a real knight. This was his chance – not only to show that he was strong, but also that he could be clever. He remembered the line he’d heard the minstrel speak at dinner – Roland is brave and Olivier is wise. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about modelling himself on Roland: Martin had never heard the poem before, but no doubt it would turn out to be Olivier who was the hero of the piece. Roland would do something brave but stupid, and he’d need to be saved by his more intelligent friend. Well, from now on Martin would aim to be like Olivier, even if it wasn’t in his true nature.
Most of the other men were ready and waiting, so once Martin and the last couple of stragglers emerged, they marched down to the stables. Within a short space of time they were all mounted, and Martin felt the excitement rise within him again. He felt proud as he pushed on his helm and took his place behind the knight, sword by his side and lance balanced upright in his right stirrup.
They rode out of the gate and through the village, the people there moving hastily out of their way and looking on with respect. One or two children even ran after them, cheering. Martin threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest.
They left the village behind and took the winding road northwards and over the bridge, past the fields and towards the forest. Once they had passed the last cultivated area, the trees became thicker. As they trotted further into the woods they left most of the sunlight behind and only a few bright spears pierced the canopy and made dappled patches on the ground. Martin felt his mail beginning to weigh heavily, and his vision was impaired by the helm, which he also wasn’t used to wearing for long periods. He really needed to practise more.
Sir Geoffrey had halted and was beckoning to them all. Martin reined in his horse and moved up to make room for another man to come up beside him.
Sir Geoffrey removed his helm. ‘We’re not far from where they were last seen, and they’ll be on foot, so they can’t be more than a few miles from here. We’ll spread out in groups of three, each group containing a man with a hunting horn. As soon as you locate any of them, sound your horn and the rest of us will come. Try if you can to keep them alive, as I want to find out more about what’s going on, but kill them if you have to rather than letting them escape.’
Martin wondered why his mail had suddenly become a little tighter, the helm a little closer around his face.
Around him the men were dividing into small groups. He didn’t have a horn with him so he’d have to find someone who did. He fumbled as he tried to turn around and look for someone, and the tip of his lance caught in a branch. By the time he’d wrestled it free and regained his balance, most of the others were moving off. His horse seemed more difficult to control than it had been earlier.
Sir Geoffrey moved beside him. He had replaced his helm and was faceless, but the hand which he put on Martin’s arm was reassuring. ‘Never fear. It may seem harsh to you now, but don’t forget, these men have been attacking our lord’s people, and will cause him more trouble if we don’t subdue them quickly. We can’t have that, can we?’
Martin tried to nod, but the helm wouldn’t allow such a manoeuvre. ‘Yes, Sir Geoffrey.’ He hoped the knight hadn’t heard the slight shake in his voice.
‘Good. Think of it as one more step on your path to knighthood, and you’ll be fine. Now, ready your shield and we’ll be off.’ With an ease that Martin envied, Sir Geoffrey withdrew his arm and slipped it through the enarmes of his shield, so he was holding it braced, then flicked his reins back from his right hand to his left, all without overbalancing his lance.
The two of them were left in the glade with just one other man, a guard whom Martin thought was called Turold, who had a hunting horn hanging from his belt. Sir Geoffrey turned his horse. ‘Come, then.’
It was hot work, for all the shade provided by the trees. After another hour or so, Martin was drenched in sweat, the gambeson now soaked and clammy beneath his mail. He had to concentrate hard to canter over the uneven ground, while making sure that his upright lance didn’t catch in any more branches, and simultaneously trying to look out for the outlaws despite his limited vision. Every movement in the undergrowth made him jump. All this would have been slightly easier if Sir Geoffrey hadn’t been setting quite such a pace.
Finally the knight stopped, removing his helm. Martin hastily did the same, relishing the coolness of the air on his face as the sweat poured off him. ‘We’ll rest the horses a few moments.’ Sir Geoffrey took a wineskin from the saddle of his horse – why hadn’t Martin thought of bringing one? He’d try to remember next time – and unstoppered it. After taking a swig he offered it to Martin. Martin drank gratefully, some of the liquid sloshing over his chin. It was watered down and refreshing; he felt revived. He looked around, but Turold was drinking from a skin of his own. He gave the wine back to Sir Geoffrey and remembered just in time not to wipe his mailed hand across his face.
Sir Geoffrey stowed the skin again, stretched, and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s good to get out from the castle walls properly. Reminds me of – ’
He was cut off by the sound of a horn coming from a distance, over to the west. His demeanour changed in an instant. ‘Come on!’ He shoved his helm back on, set his spurs to his horse and was off.
Martin felt his heart hammering as he tried to keep up with Sir Geoffrey. How did such an old man react so fast? But there was no time to think of that now. He raced headlong after the knight, crashing out of the forest and on to the road.
Within a short time he could hear shouts, and he saw three of the castle men fighting in a ragged engagement against others on foot, straggling between the road and the edge of the forest. There looked to be six outlaws, some with swords and others with cudgels, and the castle men were hard-pressed even though they were mounted. As Martin neared them, one was knocked off his horse, and he fell to the ground with a thud, rolling to get away from the hooves and from the outlaw standing over him with a sword. He couldn’t get up – he was going to be killed! The sword started its descent.
But it never reached the prone man as Sir Geoffrey thundered forward, lance at the ready, and spitted the assailant like a chicken. Martin tried not to retch as he saw the steel head of the lance burst forth from the man’s back, fountaining blood everywhere. Sir Geoffrey merely dropped the lance, still embedded in the body, and drew his sword. Taking one look at the faceless armed knight, the nearest outlaw dropped his cudgel and grabbed at the reins of the riderless horse, swinging himself into the saddle even as it started to run, and then setting off at a gallop back towards the road. Before Martin could react, Turold was after him, fleet on his own mount.
Martin didn’t know which way to go. He span his horse around, but knew he wouldn’t be able to catch Turold now. Sir Geoffrey looked to have his own situation under control as he struck down at another outlaw, and then two more castle men appeared from the opposite direction. Outnumbered, three of the remaining outlaws dropped their weapons and raised their hands, but the fourth drew a dagger and hurled it at Sir Geoffrey. Martin shouted a warning, but the knight was ready and flicked it away with his shield as though it had been a fly. However, he and his men were momentarily distracted, and one of the outlaws took his chance and darted past, sprinting towards the woods.
Martin heard Sir Geoffrey bark his name, but he was already on his way, spurring his horse towards the man as he reached the edge of the woods and disappeared among the trees. Martin plunged into the shadow after him. His horse tensed as it went suddenly from light into dark, and started to pull up; Martin had to kick it on even as he tried to keep his eyes on the quarry, his own vision impaired by the helm. The man was panicking, running as fast as he could and making no attempt to hide. Martin urged his horse forward, but it was difficult on the uneven ground and with the trees so close together. A headlong gallop wasn’t going to do any good. He slowed to a rhythmic canter and brought his lance down level into the couched position, ready to strike the man down.
He ducked under branches as he rode, watching the man all the while, at one with the drumming of his horse’s hooves. So this was what all that quintain practice had been about! He had it now. He drew closer to the man, who panicked and slipped as he tried to look behind him, shouting something. Martin was catching him; he was only a lance length away. What was he going to do? He couldn’t bear to drive the sharp steel into the running man’s back. As he drew level with the man he swept his lance sideways and knocked him off his feet. But as he tried to halt and turn his mount to stand over the fallen man, he stopped looking where he was going. A low-hanging branch smacked him squarely in the chest and he was knocked flying off his horse, the world turning over, to land with a thump on the hard ground.
Everything stopped.
He was flat on his back, gasping, winded, unable to breathe. He started to panic, unable to get any air into his body. Two other castle men had followed and were now with him, dismounting as the outlaw regained his feet and scrabbled up the nearest tree.
There was shouting, but Martin couldn’t hear the words through the padding of the helm which had kept his head in one piece. One of the men helped him to manoeuvre it off, and he slowly returned to himself as he felt the air on his face; the stars receded and he tried to inhale shallowly to ease the pain. At least he could breathe. Falling to the ground in heavy armour was a lot harder than doing it in a lightweight gambeson, that was for sure. He felt like he was made of lead. But as he was helped into a sitting position he realised that he hadn’t actually broken anything – at least he didn’t think so, as he was sure the pain would be a lot worse if he had. All that practice at getting knocked down had obviously sunk in, and he must have relaxed as he was supposed to. Thank the Lord he hadn’t got his feet caught in the stirrups. And remarkably his horse hadn’t bolted, either – it was standing a few yards away. One of his companions collected the reins.
The sound of steady hoofbeats came nearer, and Sir Geoffrey trotted into the glade. He reined in, removed his helm, and looked around. He cast a glance at Martin first of all, and Martin managed to raise a hand. The briefest smile passed the knight’s lips, and he nodded without speaking as he turned to focus on the man in the tree.
‘It will be better for you if you come down now.’
Sir Geoffrey had spoken in English, and the man merely scrambled further up.
Martin tried to force some words out, but he didn’t have the breath. He inhaled deeply, wincing, and tried again. ‘French,’ he croaked. The knight turned. Martin tried not to wheeze. ‘French, Sir Geoffrey. He was shouting in French.’
Sir Geoffrey glared up the tree, switched language, and roared. ‘Come down now! If you don’t, I will fetch archers to shoot you down, and dogs to rend your broken carcass. God’s blood, I’ll come up there myself and break your neck!’
Martin flinched, and the man in the tree looked like he might faint with fright. The branch he was holding trembled.
Martin thought Sir Geoffrey was going to go completely mad, but he regained some measure of self-control, much to Martin’s relief. ‘If you come down now you will be taken for trial.’
There was an agonising pause, and then the man started on his way down the tree. When he reached the ground, the guard who had been helping Martin stepped forward and grabbed him, twisting his arms behind his back. He marched him off in the direction of the road.
Sir Geoffrey stood over Martin and held out his hand. ‘Good work. Now come, it would be better to get back to the castle before dark.’
Martin took his hand and was hauled upright. There wasn’t a part of him which didn’t hurt.
Sir Geoffrey thumped him on the back, which didn’t help. ‘Besides, you’re going to be as stiff as a table in a few hours, and probably unable to move for a couple of days after that, so better to get home before it sets in.’
The other castle man held out the reins of his horse, and Martin grimaced at the thought of mounting. But Sir Geoffrey himself boosted him into the saddle and passed him his lance, so Martin concentrated on staying upright as they walked their horses back towards the road.
After Martin had run off to join the other men for the patrol, Edwin thought he’d try again to find Father Ignatius; it was late afternoon, which should mean he wasn’t at a service in the church. He took a circuitous route around the village to avoid passing the door of William Steward’s house, in case he insisted on coming too, and found the priest on his knees in the garden outside his home, weeding around his peas and beans. As he saw Edwin approach he stood and dusted off his habit. His face was red and sweat was dripping off him.
‘Benedicte, my son. The Lord must have sent you to speak with me, to give me an excuse to sit for a while.’ He shifted a log into the shade of the house’s eaves, and settled his rather portly form on it, sighing. ‘This weather is not made for such as me.’ He tapped his stomach. ‘I shouldn’t really avail myself of our lord’s table so often. More fasting would be good for my soul, but alas, I find the fine food a temptation which is hard to resist.’ He took off his straw hat, revealing a very red-looking tonsured head, and used it to flap at a couple of flies which were circling him. He held the hat up in front of his face to shade his eyes. ‘Well don’t stand there, Edwin – you’re making me look right up into the sun.’
Edwin dropped gratefully to the ground next to him. Father Ignatius was the only person in the village who wasn’t bone-thin, which he supposed wasn’t too bad in the winter, but it must be difficult for him in this weather. Still, he didn’t have to swamp himself in padding and armour, or labour in the fields, so he probably didn’t suffer much. Edwin himself had thought sometimes about becoming a cleric, but the likes of him wouldn’t be allowed to be a priest or a proper monk: that took money and a good family.
He realised that Father Ignatius was waiting for him to say something. ‘Sorry, Father, I was distracted for a moment. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Hamo.’
The priest crossed himself. ‘Requiescat in pace.’ He hesitated. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
Edwin crossed himself automatically, although it was Hamo’s earthly existence he was concerned with at the moment, not his life in the hereafter. ‘Well, to start with, do you know where he came from? Sir Geoffrey said Reigate, but I don’t know where that is. Is it near here? Could I go there to find out more?’
The priest shook his head. ‘No. It’s many days’ journey from here, down in the south of the country near one of my lord’s other castles.’
‘Oh.’ That spoilt any chance of visiting Hamo’s family home – he’d never get there and back. ‘Do you know anything else about him? He must have been from a noble family?’
Father Ignatius blew out a long breath. ‘Not noble, no. But knightly, certainly. I think his father was a retainer of the earl.’
‘But they must have had land? He didn’t inherit it?’
‘N-oo. They will have had some kind of estate, otherwise our lord wouldn’t have taken him into his service. But I don’t know exactly where, or how big. But he wouldn’t have inherited anything, or he probably wouldn’t be the earl’s household marshal. He had several brothers, I believe, although they’re all dead now.’
Something wasn’t right there. ‘How do you know?’
‘What?’
‘How do you know his brothers are dead? Everything else you said was “I believe”, or “I think”, or “I don’t know”, but you were quite certain on that point.’
The priest shifted on his seat, his face even redder. ‘I’m sure I didn’t – I mean, I think – ’
His confused reaction confirmed it. Edwin put up a hand. ‘Father, please. There’s something you’re not telling me. I need to find out why he died, why someone might have killed him, and to do that I need all the help you can give.’
Another uncomfortable movement. ‘You know very well I can’t tell you anything the man told me under the seal of confession.’
‘Well, no, but – ’
The priest crossed himself. ‘All I will say, my son, is that things are not always what they seem, and people do surprise you.’ Then he sighed. ‘You of all people should know that.’
The pain of the last few weeks was suddenly so vivid, so raw, that Edwin felt dizzy. He leaned forward to try and put his head down before he crumpled. Stars appeared before his eyes and he couldn’t breathe.
He felt a hand on his arm, a voice coming from far away. ‘Edwin? Edwin, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that – I wasn’t thinking about how much it must have affected you.’ The hand pulled him upright again, but he kept his eyes closed. ‘Come now, say a prayer with me and with the Lord’s grace you’ll feel better.’
The familiar words of the paternoster did indeed calm him, and Edwin felt his head stop spinning. By the time he said ‘Amen’ he was nearly himself again, and he felt ashamed. But Father Ignatius didn’t seem to mind – his face, still sweaty and red, held only concern. ‘Thank you, Father.’
The priest smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m here to give you spiritual comfort, my son. Speaking of which, I think I see another duty beckoning.’
Edwin looked up and saw a man approaching, but as he tried to see who it was he looked directly into the sun and was blinded. The man was almost upon them before he saw it was Aelfrith, a freeman of not much more than his own age who lived on an outlying farm.
Aelfrith threw himself on his knees before the priest. ‘Father, you have to come quickly. Mother is dying.’
Edwin knew from his mother and aunt that Aelfrith’s mother pronounced herself to be ‘dying’ about three times a month, so he was sceptical, but Father Ignatius showed only compassion. He took Aelfrith’s hands and urged him to rise. ‘Come, my son, let me fetch a vial of holy water and we will walk together to comfort her.’
Edwin winced, for it was a full three miles to Aelfrith’s farm, and Father Ignatius would surely melt like butter in the blazing heat of the afternoon, but he said nothing. Conisbrough was lucky to have a priest who did his duty to the poor folk as well as the noble ones. He watched as they disappeared around the corner of the house, and then stood up himself. He’d been a little too quick, for the dizziness came upon him again, and he put out an arm to the wall of the house for a moment to steady himself. Damn it, he still wasn’t any closer to finding out more about Hamo. What had Father Ignatius meant when he said that things weren’t always as they seemed? There was nothing hidden about Hamo – he was just a fussy little man whom nobody liked, albeit a man who had something of a gift for organisation.
Edwin sighed. How was he going to explain to the earl that he just couldn’t do it this time? He would need to talk to the priest again, and soon, but he couldn’t go chasing him down the road now, not when he was on a mission to visit the sick. He’d have to try and find out more from another source in the meantime – maybe William would know something? The Lord knew he didn’t want a repeat of his uncle’s earlier hysterics, but he was at something of a dead end, and other than the cook, William was probably the man who’d worked most closely with Hamo. With feelings of foreboding, he set off. At least he would be able to sit in the shade and get a drink from his aunt.
He wasn’t far away from his uncle’s house when he heard a woman screaming. He started to run, hurdling the low gate, sprinting across the garden and bursting through the open doorway before skidding to a breathless halt. Inside there was darkness, and his aunt standing there, looking at him in some surprise.
‘Edwin? What is it?’ Another soul-curdling shriek came from the direction of the bedchamber and Edwin pointed, unable to speak until he got his breath back.
Cecily rolled her eyes. ‘Men!’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s just Joan, John’s wife who came to the village today. The walk must have brought on her labour pains. She started an hour or so ago. From what she says it sounds a bit early, but not too much, so with the Lord’s grace everything will be well.’
Another scream, followed by sobbing and panting. Edwin thought he could make out the words ‘Holy Mother of God, help me’, but it was difficult to tell.
Cecily patted his arm again, moved away and bent to open the kist which stood against the far wall. She looked calm, but she fumbled the lid and dropped it with a bang before picking it up properly again. ‘Why don’t you leave us to it? Godleva’s taken the little one, and William had a boy help drag him over to Robin the carpenter’s place earlier so he didn’t have to listen to it. If you see him you can tell him not to come back until later.’ Her voice wasn’t as steady as usual. She stood and faced him, a clean cloth in her hands. ‘And it might also be better if you take young John along with you.’
She pointed into the corner and Edwin noticed for the first time that the boy was curled up on a blanket in the corner of the room. Huge dark eyes stared out of his pale face, and he flinched as the sounds from the other room intensified again. His injured arm was freshly splinted and he couldn’t move it, but he was pressing the other hand over one ear, and trying to cover the other by pushing his head down into his shoulder as another piteous cry sounded from the bedchamber.
Edwin moved forward with speed. ‘Of course. Come on now – John, was it?’ He tried to sound cheerful as he helped the boy to his feet, putting one arm around him and taking most of his weight as he led him out into the bright daylight. ‘Your mother will be fine, I’m sure – women do these things all the time.’ But Edwin had heard women crying out with birthing pangs plenty of times before, and they hadn’t sounded anything like that. As they left the house, he was glad to see Agnes, the widow who kept house for Father Ignatius and who was also the village midwife, arriving. She would sort it all out. It would be fine.
Edwin staggered a little as the boy overbalanced on to him. They wouldn’t be able to go far, but he had to get him away from those terrible screams. Perhaps the best thing they could do would be to go to the church and pray for the safety of the mother and the baby which would soon arrive before its time. He took a surer grip on young John’s tunic and led him away.
Joanna tripped over the hem of her skirt as she ascended the stairs which led to the keep. Really, these garments weren’t made for such activity. Still, discomfort was the price to be paid for elegance; this was one of her favourite gowns, with an embroidered hem and decorative buttons on the sleeves, second only to the one she would wear for Isabelle’s wedding later in the week. Once she was inside the building she crouched to examine the hem to make sure she hadn’t put her foot through it, but it seemed to be intact. Thank the Lord for that. Looking around her to check that nobody was watching, she carefully scooped up an armful of the fabric to hold it up out of the way of her feet and ankles as she started up the staircase which wound its way around the inside of the keep.
This part of the way was familiar; she went to the chapel every Sunday to hear Father Ignatius say Mass, so she knew her way there. As she drew near to it, she was surprised to hear a voice from inside the room. Surely nobody would be in there now, so many hours after the service? Neither the lord earl nor his sister were overly devout. Ah, but perhaps it was the new monk, whom she’d seen entering the keep earlier.
She hesitated as she neared the doorway, then stopped and peered round into the chapel. It wasn’t the monk, nor yet the priest: it was William Fitzwilliam, on his knees before the altar, hands clasped, muttering fervently to himself. She couldn’t make out any of his actual words, but he appeared in deep distress. What should she do? She couldn’t stand here in silence, for she had an errand to run; but she didn’t want to disturb him or to have him think that she had been spying on him in any way. She tiptoed past the doorway as quietly as she could and breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t noticed her.
She’d never been past the chapel in the keep, for the rest of it was a very masculine domain: the earl’s council chamber on this floor, and then his bedchamber on the floor above and the roof above that. But there was no way of getting lost: the door to the council chamber was just here, easily visible. She stopped, unsure of herself now. But Isabelle had sent her, so she had to go on; she let her skirts fall, made sure they were adjusted correctly so that her feet couldn’t be seen, and knocked softly.
To be honest, she wouldn’t have minded much if there had been no reply: she could have gone back to Isabelle and told her truthfully that she hadn’t been admitted. But the low hum of voices stopped and the door opened to reveal Adam. Behind him, the earl looked slightly surprised to see her, but no worse than that, and he gestured to her to enter. She stepped into the room and curtseyed.
The earl looked to be in a good mood, sitting in a large chair next to a table strewn with pieces of parchment, with Sir Gilbert facing him, both with goblets of wine. Over to one side of the room, where the light from the single window fell, Brother William sat at a small writing desk, a quill in his hand and ink on his sleeve. He looked from her to the earl, and took the opportunity to put down his pen and flex his fingers. Now she could see him at much closer quarters than she had in the hall earlier she was struck again by his resemblance to someone, but she didn’t have time to wonder who it was, as the earl was waiting for her to speak.
‘I – ’ She cleared her throat. ‘I do beg your pardon for interrupting, my lord, but my Lady Isabelle sent me.’
‘Yes, I thought that would be the case. And what does my sister send you for?’
Thank goodness he didn’t look angry. ‘Er, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, she was wondering if Sir Gilbert will be joining her, as she said he’d said he was going to walk with her in the garden after dinner.’ And what cheek of her to mention it – no wonder Isabelle had sent her instead of coming herself. One simply didn’t order one’s menfolk around like that, not when they had important matters to attend to. She looked at the floor.
But Sir Gilbert had given an exclamation and looked out of the window at the afternoon sun. ‘No, you’re right, Joanna, I did say that.’
The earl laughed. ‘Then get yourself hence, man. We can discuss all this later – I have other matters I can go through with the good brother here, and you’d better attend to your bride. God knows it’s made my life much easier having her so content.’ He waved dismissal, and Sir Gilbert nodded his head and moved towards the door, waiting for Joanna to pass through it first. As they walked past the chapel entrance, Joanna risked a glance inside, but it was empty.
Edwin didn’t know how long he’d been in the church when he heard the sound of someone else entering. Young John had knelt with him a while but the pain and exhaustion had got too much for him, and he was asleep on the floor. Edwin felt sure there was no sin in this, after what the boy had been through, but he had an excuse half-ready in case the newcomer was Father Ignatius.
It wasn’t: it was John the elder, who had a weary look as he came and lowered himself stiffly to his knees. He crossed himself and closed his eyes, lips moving in prayer. Edwin waited until he’d finished before speaking. ‘Any news?’
John shook his head. ‘I went to the cottage and the women said it were all coming along. But it don’t sound right to me – not like the other times, anyway.’
Edwin said nothing. He hadn’t thought it had sounded right either, but what did he know? He wasn’t a married man, had never sat by and listened to his wife emitting piercing cries of agony and distress as she fought to bring another child into the world. What must it be like? How could anyone bear the pain? What if the woman screaming was … he couldn’t bear even to think her name.
There was silence for a few moments before John nodded at the shrouded figure lying on a trestle near to the altar. ‘Who’s that?’
Edwin stood, privately glad of the excuse to straighten his aching knees. ‘It’s Hamo, the lord earl’s marshal. He died last night.’
John drew in his breath as though he was about to say something, but then he didn’t. Edwin turned to face him. ‘What?’
John shrugged. ‘Nothing, really. I were just thinking it were an unusual name.’
Edwin thought for a moment. ‘I … would you look at the body and see if he’s someone you’ve seen before?’ John nodded so Edwin shuffled up to the bier. He hesitated with his hand out before touching the cloth, then pulled it back.
The face was black and already swelling in the heat. A fly settled on one of the eyelids and Edwin flapped it away, feeling the gorge rising in his throat.
He looked enquiringly at John, who seemed unmoved. ‘Yes, I seen him before. He’s rode past a few times, sometimes on his own and sometimes with one of them lords.’
‘Lord? What lord?’
John shrugged again, incurious about his betters. ‘I don’t know. A lord in fine clothes. I heard him say “Hamo” once or twice which is why I knew the name.’
Edwin covered the body up again. They would have to sort out the burial soon, for the corpse would soon putrefy in this heat. But what in the Lord’s name could Hamo have been doing? ‘You live out near the Sprotborough road, don’t you?’
‘Yes, west of it about half a mile, up a track. Why?’
Footsteps sounded from the doorway of the church. They both turned to see a black shape, the spectre of death outlined against the evening sun outside. Edwin shivered, and heard John catch his breath beside him. The figure moved forward and he could see that it was Cecily. She hadn’t yet washed herself properly after attending to John’s wife, and there were streaks of blood down both her arms and on her hands. Edwin stared at them, examining the paths they had tracked across her skin, in order to avoid having to look at her face, but he had to do it sometime. He looked up at the dulled eyes, at the deep sadness etched into her features.
Her words were aimed at John. ‘I’m sorry.’
John buried his face in his hands.