Refreshed by his ale, although not by the conversation, Edwin left his mother’s house. Marriage? He hadn’t really thought of it before, or had he? Perhaps it had been at the back of his mind since … strange, as soon as his mother had mentioned the word, Alys’s face had appeared before him, her summer-blue eyes smiling. She was so different from any of the girls he’d grown up with. Well, of course she would be, she was from a different part of the country and she lived in a big city, but even accounting for that she was still … but there was Godleva again, lurking at the side of one of the houses. She looked as though she was about to step over to him again, so he hurried across the green to the street on the other side, entering the yard of one of the village’s other larger houses and calling out a greeting before he stepped over the threshold.
The door stood open in the warm weather, and the windows were uncovered, but still it was darker than the bright sunlight outside so he stopped to let his eyes become accustomed to the gloom. As he did so, his aunt bustled forward and embraced him, smelling as always of the fragrant herbs with which she often worked. She stepped back and patted him on the cheek, but had barely started on an offer of refreshment before a harsh voice came from the cottage’s other room, demanding to know who was there and what was going on. Cecily rolled her eyes at Edwin and said he’d better go in.
Edwin stepped into the bedchamber and leaned over to shake the hand of the man in the bed. William cheered up on seeing who his visitor was, but it was almost grudging – he’d probably been looking for an excuse to take his temper out on anyone else unfortunate enough to get in his way. He motioned Edwin to a small stool which was overturned by the side of the bed, and Edwin righted it and sat down to ask him how he was.
He expected something of a rant and he wasn’t disappointed. He let it wash over him – the normally even-tempered William was probably entitled to be irritable given his current situation. He’d been crippled ever since Edwin could remember: he’d once been a soldier in the service of the old earl, and had returned from a long-ago campaign with part of his left ear missing, a horrific scar which disfigured the entire left side of his face, and a maimed and twisted leg which caused him to limp heavily. Normally he managed to hobble about fairly well: as the steward his work was almost entirely in the castle rather than out on the estate, and he hauled himself up the hill and back once every day. However, two weeks ago he’d fallen down the stairs which led up to the entrance to the keep, and he’d injured his good right leg. There it lay on top of the bed, the ankle swollen and purple, causing him great pain and preventing him from walking altogether. There was of course a good chance that he would recover, so the earl hadn’t dismissed him from service, but William was both frustrated by his enforced inactivity and worried about his future, so his outbursts were regular.
After he’d calmed down slightly he asked for news, so Edwin tried to give him an idea of what was going on outside the walls of the cottage. He decided that any mention of the outlaws or their attack on the monk would cause far too much excitement, so he restricted himself to speaking of the crops and the weather. William seemed content and started to lie back on his pillows and smile, so Edwin moved on to describe the wedding preparations at the castle. It was only after he’d been talking about the details for some time that he realised that William’s face was growing blacker and blacker, and that this was particularly pronounced whenever he mentioned Hamo. He tailed off in the middle of a sentence, deciding it was probably unwise to recount how Hamo had refused to provide sugar to the cook.
It was too late. William was already struggling to get out of the bed, cursing at the pain. ‘Help me will you, for God’s sake!’ He held out his hand as he tried to push himself up.
Edwin wasn’t at all sure that this was a good idea. He tried to make soothing noises and press William back down, but this was the wrong approach.
‘Don’t talk to me like that, boy – I’m not a child! Just get me out of this cursed bed and get me up to the castle.’ William’s face contorted as he managed to swing his leg over the side of the bed but then he cried out as his foot touched the floor. Cecily hurried in and attempted to help Edwin calm her husband down, trying to push him back on to the bed, but it wasn’t going to work.
‘Get off me!’ William shook off their arms. ‘Edwin, get outside right now and find some men to help. I am going up to that office whether it kills me – or you, for that matter, or both of us, and I am going to tell that Hamo what’s what.’ His face was growing purple. Edwin looked at his aunt, shrugged and went outside to find some help.
Within a short space of time Edwin found himself at the head of a procession, as Alwin and Osmund, two of the burlier villagers, carried William on a seat made from their intertwined hands. They were followed by all the other men who happened to be around, not to mention a number of curious children; the village women came out of their houses and gardens to watch. They struggled up to the castle’s outer gate, where the man on guard thought better of trying to halt the furious steward. He did manage to prevent the hangers-on from accompanying them, though, so Edwin, William and the other two continued up into the inner ward alone.
When they reached the great hall, Edwin hoped that they would find the service area and office behind it empty, and then they could all calm down and go home, but his luck was out. Hamo was in there, wagging his finger in the face of one of the servants.
William roared. ‘Hamo! You son of a …’
Hamo turned in alarm as he heard the bellow, and had Edwin not been worried about the scene in front of him he might have laughed, for he had never seen anyone look so surprised. The marshal took a step back at the sight of the enraged steward and his hefty bearers, and that was his undoing.
‘Aha! You know you’re in the wrong, you little toad! Taking my duties behind my back and destroying all the goodwill I’ve spent years building up. How dare you!’ William removed his arm from around Osmund’s shoulder and tried to lunge forward, but as his foot made contact with the floor his leg collapsed under him and he was forced to grab Alwin’s arm, allowing Hamo to back away further until he was against the wall. He stood there while William launched a stream of oaths against him, and Edwin tried unsuccessfully to shut the office door and keep out the crowds of onlookers who were gathering. Most of them were smiling, happy to see the pompous marshal on the receiving end for once.
William was trying ever harder to hobble forward until eventually, still being supported by the off-balance Alwin, with Osmund trying to catch hold of him, he managed to grab a fistful of Hamo’s tunic. The muscles in his burly right arm bulged through his sleeve as he all but lifted the smaller man off the floor. ‘If you don’t start putting this right, I’ll kill you, d’you hear? I’ll wring your scrawny neck!’ He shook Hamo but the effort made him overbalance completely and he fell, pulling both Hamo and Alwin with him. Just to complete the scene, Osmund couldn’t stop himself tripping over them, and soon they were all in a heap on the floor.
Edwin ran forward to try and restore some order, shouting at the laughing onlookers behind him that they should either help or go away, or he’d have something to say about it. They remained where they were, though, including a small figure at the front who was doubled over with mirth, tears streaming down his face. Edwin had no time to wonder what Thomas might be doing there, however, and he leaned down to try to help the men untangle themselves before anyone more senior came along and found out what was happening. William would be lucky to keep his position after this, even if his leg did recover, and if he lost his place he could well end up a destitute beggar. Not that Edwin would let it come to that, of course, but how William would hate being a burden on his nephew. There must be some way of smoothing this over. Finally Edwin managed to get everyone sorted out, and, leaving Hamo to dust himself down, he helped the two men to pick William up and carry him out through the cheering throng, the page’s cackles still echoing in his ears.
Martin turned his face up to the sunshine as he strolled through the inner ward. After they’d seen the unconscious outlaw safely locked away in a cell, the earl had released him and Adam for an hour as he intended to speak with Sir Gilbert, no doubt hammering out the finer details of the marriage settlement. Martin was glad to be able to get out into the air instead of having to stand and listen to all the talk about inheritances and dowries. He was off to the tiltyard to practise his horsemanship, and nothing could have made him happier. He picked up his gear from the armoury, and headed out to the inner gate and down towards the stables.
As he passed near to the castle’s outer gate he saw a small group of people arriving – three men and a small boy, with an extra packhorse. The man on the lead animal caught his eye and waved. Martin waved back and changed direction to greet him, for it was Sir Roger, one of the earl’s knights and the man who would act as Sir Gilbert’s groomsman at the wedding. He was accompanied by two men-at-arms, one of whom carried on the back of his horse the boy Peter, formerly a villager of Conisbrough and now Sir Roger’s servant.
As Martin reached the group he put out his hand to hold the head of the knight’s horse. It looked tired, and so it might, for it was a more elderly mount than you would normally see carrying a knight. He patted its neck as Sir Roger swung easily to the ground with his customary grace. The sunshine had if anything made his hair even blonder, and it glowed like a halo around his head as he smiled his thanks. Then he handed the reins of the horse over to Peter, telling him to follow the two men to the stable and see the animal looked after. After watching them go he turned to Martin.
‘Well met. A happier occasion than when we last parted, I think?’
Martin smiled. ‘Undoubtedly, Sir Roger. Would you like to go and greet my lord straight away? He’s in conference with Sir Gilbert, but I could go and tell him that you’re here, if you like.’
The knight shook his head. ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t think of disturbing him while he speaks of business. No doubt they’ll emerge when they’ve finished and I can offer them both my congratulations at the same time. But perhaps Sir Geoffrey is around for me to pay my respects?’
‘Yes, he’s about somewhere. He was up near the inner gatehouse last time I saw him.’
‘Well then, I’d better head that way. Perhaps you’d like to join me?’
Martin weighed up the opportunity to go out and ride with the chance to spend some time with a knight whom he admired. But the pull of the open space was too much, so he reluctantly bade farewell to Sir Roger and turned back towards the stables.
Once his courser was saddled, he led it out of the gate before mounting and proceeding at walking pace around the outside of the castle wall towards the flat ground on the eastern side. He held his padded gear in front of him and felt the warmth of the sun upon his face as he smiled and relaxed for the first time in days. Thank the Lord, a chance to get out and do something physical for a change. Being the senior squire was turning out to be much more difficult than he’d anticipated. Of course, it hadn’t helped that he’d had the position thrust upon him so suddenly, but there was no point dwelling on that. It wasn’t so much the extra duties regarding the earl, his clothing, his armour, his horse, or serving at table – he was used to that kind of thing and it was just a case of there being more of it. It wasn’t even the responsibility of training the little devil Thomas, although that certainly wasn’t his favourite part of the job. No, it was the politics. Suddenly he was expected to attend meetings and councils with the earl and Sir Geoffrey, where he was expected to know who everyone that they were talking about was, which side they were on in the war, who they were allied to in marriage, and so on. He couldn’t keep up and it made his head hurt.
As he nudged his horse past the fishponds, shrunken in the summer heat, he let his mind wander over some of the more tedious conversations he’d heard recently about tax revenue, scutage, tallage and other such financial matters. Surely he didn’t need to know all this? While he was a squire there would always be the earl and Sir Geoffrey to tell him what to do, and once he was a knight, he wouldn’t exactly be part of the noble circle – his father held reasonable lands that he’d probably have to manage in due course, but it was hardly of importance when compared with the earls, barons and great landowners who ran the kingdom.
But anyway, no need to worry about that now. He had reached the flat ground outside the walls, where a large area was roped off. Adam was already there, his own pony tethered to a rail, with a pile of blunted lances. He was busy erecting the quintain, and Martin dismounted to go and help him.
The main post on its pivot was already in place, and Adam was struggling to fit one of the arms to it as the socket was too high up for him. Martin helped him to heft it into place and secure it, and then made sure the shield was hanging correctly off the end. Then they moved to the other side to affix the second arm, the one with the heavy bag of sand attached to it by a short rope. Satisfied that everything was ready, they walked back to their mounts.
Adam looked up at him. ‘Do you want to go first?’
Martin considered. ‘No, you have the first try. We’ll get you kitted up, and then I’ll watch you to see how you do while I put mine on.’
Adam nodded, and Martin bent to help him into the padded garments which he needed for the practice.
After Adam was ready, he mounted and Martin stood ready with a lance. ‘Leave your shield for now – you’ll be able to control him better if you’ve only got to hold the reins in your left hand. Now, take this.’ He handed over the lance. Adam struggled with the twelve-foot pole, sliding off balance and making his horse dance. Martin held its bridle until it calmed again. ‘All right. You haven’t used one the proper length before, have you?’ Adam shook his head, his face looking worried inside the padded hood. ‘You’ll be fine. Couch it level now, before you start, and just canter towards the quintain. You probably won’t hit it first time, but we’ll see how you get on.’
Adam clasped his right hand around the lance and brought it down so that it lay level, gripping it under his right arm and pointing over the left side of his horse’s neck. Martin let go of the bridle and stood back to watch.
As Adam rode forward Martin could see that the lance was wobbling all over the place. There was a huge difference between using one of the eight-foot poles he’d been training with up until now, and a proper one. Still, he was fourteen now and he needed to learn. Martin was unsurprised as Adam missed the hanging shield completely, but he did manage to retain hold of everything as he reined in his mount and turned to come back. The pony remained calm, having done the same exercise with generations of pages and squires over the years; it ambled back and waited for Adam to collect himself and start his run once more.
He missed again the second time. That was the problem with the longer lances – it only took the tiniest tremble of the hand to make the tip of the lance sway quite dramatically from side to side. But Adam would get the hang of it. He had proved himself adept in practice before – not strong, but accurate. He never hit any target hard enough to knock it right over, but he was able to thread the lance through a hanging ring at quite some speed. He just needed to get used to the full-size equipment, that was all.
At his third tilt, Adam managed to graze the hanging shield. It was a glancing blow which hardly made the quintain move at all, but it was progress, and Martin shouted his encouragement. The he realised he needed to get ready himself, so he bent to start putting on his gear. As he pulled the thick gambeson over his body, strapped some padding to his legs and arranged the hood on his head, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Adam rode up and down efficiently.
After a few more tries Martin signalled to him to stop and dismount. Together they moved the quintain’s arms up a notch to account for the taller horse, and then Martin told Adam to take a rest as he mounted. All the padding made him slightly stiffer as he settled himself in the saddle, but it was nowhere near as uncomfortable as wearing full mail – he tried to avoid that whenever possible as it was incredibly heavy and he didn’t like restricting his movement so much. Anyway, this was fine – a bit warm, to be sure, but still moveable.
Adam tethered his pony and held out a lance to him. Martin hefted the familiar weight, keeping the pole upright until he started moving, then bringing it down level into the couched position. He’d had the instructions drummed into him so often over so many years that he could hear Sir Geoffrey’s voice in his head. The weight of the lance should be supported by the palm of the hand, not the fingers. Press your feet down in the stirrups, squeeze your legs tight and allow yourself to go with the rhythm of the movement of the horse. The lance should be held steady at three points: by the hand that supports it, by the arm that holds it tight, and by the chest against part of which it is being held. Focus on the shield – look at the target and don’t get distracted by the tip of the lance. And keep your eyes open while you hit it.
He struck the shield a solid blow, remembering to dodge the bag of sand as it came swinging round. Satisfied, he turned and rode back to start again.
He hit the target satisfactorily every time, as he had known he would, feeling himself enjoying the movement of the horse, the co-ordination of the weapon and the force of the blow. He reached his mark once more and turned. Right, enough of accuracy and solidity. This time he was going to be clever. Sir Geoffrey was always telling him that brute strength wasn’t enough, that he had to think a bit more. This seemed a bit unnecessary to Martin – why not just hit the target really hard? – but if Sir Geoffrey wanted him to be clever, he would try. Up until now he’d been concentrating on hitting the shield right in the middle, with his lance square on to it. This time he would aim to strike it at more of an angle, swerving away from it and dodging the quintain as it turned.
As he rode he brought his lance down in a smooth movement. The target came nearer and nearer, and he urged the horse on. The end of the lance smacked into the shield at exactly the angle he’d planned, and he felt a momentary glee, which he didn’t have the chance to enjoy before a huge thump on the back sent him tumbling from the saddle.
As he fell, he remembered what he’d been taught. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and rolled as he hit the ground. It was hard, baked in the sun, but the thick layers of horsehair and wadding in the gambeson cushioned most of the blow, and he was already starting to rise as Adam ran over. He was ashamed more than anything, which proved he wasn’t hurt, so he made light of it. ‘That’s the last time I pretend he’s a Frenchman! Next time I’ll tell myself it’s Sir Geoffrey, and I’ll treat it with more respect!’ He stood for a moment and moved his shoulder round, sensing some soreness, but it was fine. The horse, another one used to the exercise, had wandered off to the edge of the tiltyard and was standing still, nibbling at the dusty grass; Martin brushed off Adam’s help and ran to fetch it. Important to get back on, of course, and this time he’d take more care. It was still more enjoyable than politics. He rode back to his mark.
The hall was absolutely heaving with people when it was time for the evening meal. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, but inside it was hot, sweaty and airless. As Edwin walked in and saw everyone he nearly turned and walked out again: perhaps he might be better off going to see if his mother had any of the day’s warm pottage left for him. But as he stood in indecision he was spotted by Brother William, sitting at the end of the nearest long table, who moved up and beckoned him over. Edwin squeezed himself on to the very end of the bench, bracing one leg to make sure he didn’t fall off and make himself look foolish. He looked sideways at the monk, trying to see if he could glimpse any sign of the extraordinary behaviour he’d witnessed earlier, but his companion didn’t mention it and gave no hint. Edwin began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole episode. But as Brother William pushed back the sleeves of his habit ready to eat his meal, Edwin could see the thick muscle of that powerful right arm. Not many monks looked like that.
Brother William was introducing himself politely to the other men around him, who nodded in greeting. Edwin looked past him and the packed lower tables towards the top end of the room, where the high table was just as crowded, if not even more so, with all the earl’s family there. Indeed, it was not one table but two – another had been added to it so there were places for fourteen, and it took up so much space on the dais that there was barely room for the squires and servants to get round it. Thomas wasn’t there, Edwin noticed: perhaps he’d been banned after making Martin spill the wine earlier. But as he watched, the page scuttled out from the service area at the bottom of the hall, his mouth crammed with something – some stolen delicacy, no doubt – and made his way to the top table where he slipped into the milling crowd without anyone really noticing. Edwin wondered if any of the nobles would spot that some luxury or other would be missing from their dishes, but decided that they probably wouldn’t. Richard the cook had apparently almost had apoplexy when he’d heard that the noble guests had arrived a day early, but somehow he’d managed to produce a meal which would be stupendous, if the smells were anything to judge by. Edwin wondered how the man had fared who had been sent back by Hamo without the sugar. He had a look round in case he could spot him anywhere, but he couldn’t – of course, the kitchen staff themselves wouldn’t be in here; they’d have a bite to eat while everyone was at the meal, and then prepare themselves for the return of the dirty dishes and the preparations for tomorrow. Anyway, Edwin was profoundly glad that he hadn’t been the one entrusted with that message.
Brother William was speaking to him, so he dragged his mind back and paid heed. The monk was asking him about the people who were at the high table with the earl. Edwin was some help but not much: he was able to point out the Lady Isabelle and the knights Sir Gilbert, Sir Geoffrey and Sir Roger, and also to note that the earl had two other sisters who were both married with children, but he didn’t know which was which. The girls sitting with Mistress Joanna were presumably companions of the noble ladies, but again he didn’t really know who they were. Brother William didn’t seem to mind, though – Edwin got the feeling that he’d just been asking in order to pass the time while he waited for his meal. Once the dishes for the noble table had gone past them and made Edwin’s mouth water, the fare for the cramped lower tables was brought out, and huge quantities of pie, pottage, bread and ale were placed before them. Richard Cook’s concentration on the noble dishes evidently hadn’t extended to the food for everyone else, and it didn’t quite taste up to the usual standard. But Brother William tucked in as though he hadn’t eaten for some time, and Edwin wondered what the monks ate at the abbey. Whatever it was, Edwin was fairly sure they wouldn’t shovel in quite so much and quite so fast as Brother William was doing now.
As Edwin applied himself to his pie he saw Hamo near him at the back of the hall, flitting around the door to the service area and fussing over the serving men going in and out. He didn’t seem to be achieving much except getting in everyone’s way, but still he kept buzzing around like a fly on a carcass. Edwin felt a little bit guilty sitting there eating while Hamo wasn’t. The man giving out trenchers asked him whether he wanted a place setting anywhere, and Hamo snipped something back at him, presumably indicating that he’d have something later. As Edwin watched, Hamo waved the man away and continued his pacing, but then he stopped, very suddenly, causing a man carrying a tray of pies to swerve around him. One pie dropped to the floor, to be snatched up immediately by someone’s dog, which retreated under the table with its prize. Hamo stood completely still, all the colour draining from his face, as he stared at Edwin. Edwin half stood out of his seat, wondering what in the Lord’s name he could have said or done which would cause Hamo to look at him in such shock; he thought he’d better go and ask, but before he could move, Hamo turned and disappeared back into the service room. Bemused, but deciding that now wasn’t the time to make a scene, Edwin sat down again and continued eating.
The meal went on for a very long time, the hall getting hotter and hotter as time passed. Edwin had eaten his fill but as everyone else around him was still supping and talking he thought it might be seen as uncivil to leave. But then there was a stir of anticipation, and Edwin saw that the minstrel was stepping forward; he decided he couldn’t leave now or it might draw attention to himself. Besides, it wasn’t every day, or even every month, that such entertainment was to be had. He tried to settle himself more comfortably on the end of the bench.
Edwin looked at the minstrel with interest. He stood in the centre of the hall, in the space between the lower tables and the dais where the nobles sat. He was an average, plain-looking man at whom nobody would look twice if they saw him in the street, but he had a certain presence which Edwin couldn’t define; a hush descended as he swept off his hat and flourished a low bow towards the earl and his guests. Then he replaced his hat, picked up some kind of stringed musical instrument with a bow, and took a deep breath.
The sound of his voice took Edwin by surprise, for it was huge, filling the room from the rushes to the rafters. Accompanied by a melodious sound from the instrument, he boomed out the first two lines of his performance:
‘Carles li reis, nostre emperere magnes,
Set anz tuz pleins ad estet en Espaigne.’
Then he stopped as applause and a roar of approval swept the hall, bowing slightly and waiting for it to subside before he continued.
Edwin was confused. Charles the king, our great emperor, had been in Spain for seven long years. What was so exciting about that?
Brother William saw his bewilderment. ‘It’s The Song of Roland, the greatest poem of them all. It tells of the great emperor Charlemagne, his nephew Roland and their battles against the Saracens. Most of the older men here will have heard it before, but they’re cheering because they know what’s coming up.’
Edwin nodded, still not quite sure why this should cause so much excitement, but he determined to listen. Of course, French wasn’t a native language for him as it was for the nobles, but he knew enough of it to be able to understand what was going on, as did all the other men in the hall – they wouldn’t be where they were now if they spoke only English. He concentrated on the minstrel’s words. The man’s performance was extraordinary; he declaimed his lines in a sing-song voice while accompanying himself on his instrument, and held every man in the hall in the palm of his hand. As his voice rose with the tension, all those listening held their breath, only letting it out when the minstrel suddenly dropped his tone to a more normal level. He recited the narrative, but also played all the parts of the men in it, putting on a different voice for each one, to suitable cheers or jeers from his audience. Edwin had never seen such a large group of people – and rough-house soldiers, many of them – so spellbound. But for the life of him he still couldn’t make out what all the fuss was about, as the text appeared to consist of nothing but talking: Charlemagne talked to his men, the Saracen king talked to his; they sent envoys to each other who talked some more. Why was this so exciting?
The performance continued for about an hour, with the hall getting hotter and sweatier all the time, and Edwin wondered again if he could slip away without anyone noticing. But the atmosphere was changing: it was becoming tense, even angry, and he could see fierce expressions on the faces of the men who had obviously heard the tale before. Even the earl was leaning forward in anticipation. Edwin turned his attention back to the minstrel as his music and voice reached a climax. Ganelon, one of Charlemagne’s lords (and, as far as Edwin could make out, Roland’s father), had been sent as an envoy to the Saracens, but he was arranging to betray his lord. No wonder the men in the hall were snarling – in the eyes of the nobles there could be no greater sin. Edwin listened as the final words of the evening were proclaimed: upon the relics of his sword, he swore treason and swore his faith away.
The minstrel fell silent. He was sweating profusely as he let his arms drop and lowered his head, his chest heaving. All around the hall men were cheering and banging on the tables in approval, and even Edwin could feel the surge of emotion.
The earl stood and raised his hand, and the noise died down. He turned to the minstrel, flipping him a coin. ‘A masterly performance. We look forward to the continuation tomorrow.’ He nodded at the rest of the noble party, and they too stood, the men wiping their beards and the ladies shaking crumbs from their fine gowns, and prepared to leave. Once they had exited the hall, people began to discuss what they’d heard, arguing among themselves. But eventually they started to wind down their conversations, and some began to bring out blankets and find themselves places to sleep. Edwin rose and stretched himself, stiff after so long perching on the hard wooden bench, and staggered out into the night.
The cool air hit him as he left the hall, and he felt somewhat revived. It was very late, but there was still a hint of light in the midsummer sky as he passed through the gatehouse and down into the village. He let himself into his mother’s house very quietly, knowing she would be asleep in the bedroom, and shut the front door behind him before barring it carefully. The fire had died down, and the last orange glimmers gave little light to see, but he’d lived in this house all his life and needed nothing to guide him as he fetched his straw palliasse and his blanket from the kist in the corner, took four steps back towards the hearth, rolled himself up and fell asleep watching the comforting glow.
It seemed like only moments later when he was being shaken.
‘Edwin! Edwin, wake up!’
‘What?’ He stirred sleepily, wondering if he’d overslept, but it was still dark and the voice wasn’t his mother’s.
‘Come on, wake up!’ He was still being shaken, and as he came to himself he realised that the door was open and his mother was hovering in the background. But the figure standing over him was Adam: that roused him quicker than a dash of cold water, for there could be no happy reason why one of the earl’s squires should be here in the middle of the night.
He sat up. ‘What is it?’
Adam’s voice was low but urgent. ‘You have to come up to the castle. It’s Hamo – he’s dead.’