Whited Sepulchres (13 page)

Looking round, he saw that his mother was nearby, as were many of the other women. She caught his eye and nodded, putting her arm around the exhausted woman and leading her away, still carrying the tot. Cecily was there too, and with her gentle guidance Osmund took the semi-conscious boy to carry him away to her house. Edwin told the injured man – John, yes, that was it – to come with him. There was nothing much the other men could do so he suggested they get back to whatever they had been doing.

This was serious, and he needed to tell Sir Geoffrey about it straight away – Father Ignatius would have to wait. It was bad enough that Brother William had been attacked on the road, but roads were often dangerous places. This raid on a family home was something else and needed to be dealt with.

As they strode up to the castle and asked one of the guards at the gate to find Sir Geoffrey for him, it struck Edwin anew how far he’d come in just a few short weeks. Would the Edwin of half a year, or even a season ago, have dared to march up and give orders in such a way? But now he knew that he was a man to whom Sir Geoffrey would listen, though he doubted he was about to do much for the knight’s foul mood.

Edwin and John continued up to the inner gate and waited. It wasn’t long before Sir Geoffrey arrived, his face still thunderous. He beckoned them into the gatehouse and, looking at John’s bleeding head, bade them sit.

‘So, what has happened?’ He spoke in English, which Edwin had never heard him do before. In fact, thinking about it, he hadn’t even known that the knight had any command of English at all.

John took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. ‘I, sir, I mean – ’ He swallowed and looked at Edwin.

Taking pity on the tongue-tied man, Edwin spoke, also in English. ‘John’s home and family were attacked by outlaws, Sir Geoffrey.’

The knight’s face hardened even further. ‘The same men who set upon Brother William on the road?’

Edwin shrugged. ‘I can’t say for sure, Sir Geoffrey, but it seems likely.’ He turned to John. ‘Can you tell us anything about them?’

John twisted his hat again. ‘There was five of ’em, sir. And they was foreign.’

Sir Geoffrey looked at him sharply. ‘Foreign? How so?’

John lost his voice again at the shock of being directly addressed by a knight. Eventually he managed to mumble, ‘I don’t know, sir. They was talking foreign.’

Edwin encouraged him to continue. ‘So what happened?’

John gulped. ‘I heard ’em outside in the garden. I went out with my cudgel and saw two of ’em – pulling up the leeks, they was. I shouted at ’em to leave, but while I was out there two more came round and went in the house, and another hit me from behind.’ He stopped and swallowed again. ‘I’m sorry sir, I must have blacked out for a moment, being hit on the head and all. I got up and went in the house, and they was all there. They’d knocked my wife and the littl’un on the floor, and one was standing over them with his sword.’

Sir Geoffrey looked up sharply. ‘A sword? Hmm.’ Edwin picked up on the knight’s thoughts. The men that Brother William had fought off had had swords, and he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But of course it would be an unusual thing for any common man to have. Why hadn’t he considered that earlier? But Sir Geoffrey was continuing. ‘And your wife? She was not …’ he struggled to think of the word in English. ‘She was not attacked?’

‘No sir. She be with child, thank the Lord, and near her time, so that must’ve stopped ’em. But she were crying, and they was twisting my lad’s arm to tell ’em if there was bread and meat and any money. I heard … ’ he paused and swallowed hard. ‘I heard his arm snap, my lord, just as I came in the house.’ He was pale, his face twisted in anguish. ‘I was too late to stop ’em, my lord, but I rushed at ’em again. This time one of ’em hit me good and proper, and I don’t know what happened after that. When I came to myself they was all gone, and so was all the bread and the pottage and what flour we had, and what was left of last year’s oats. They took the young pig we was keeping to sell in the autumn, sir, and what will we eat now over the winter? And with the oats gone, how will we live until harvest time? How will I feed my family?’

Edwin’s heart went out to the man. He looked at Sir Geoffrey, who was sitting with folded arms and a grim expression.

The knight spoke. ‘We will deal with this. Conisbrough has been a peaceful place for most of my life, and I will not have this.’ He looked at John. ‘Rest a while in the village, find someone to look at you and your wife and son to see what can be done.’ He turned to Edwin and switched to French, speaking more quickly and easily. ‘Law and order is the bailiff’s duty, but we haven’t appointed a new one yet, and besides, this needs swords, not books and words. I will lead a party out myself and we will catch these malefactors and find out what is going on. See if you can find Martin for me. Tell him to meet me in the armoury, while I assemble some men.’

Somehow he was keeping a lid on his anger, but Edwin could see the rage bubbling underneath. He hoped he wouldn’t be anywhere near when it finally boiled over.

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.