Whited Sepulchres (26 page)

Before the sun was much higher in the sky Edwin stood as part of a long line which ran from Wulfric, boots and hose off and braies rolled up, standing knee-deep in the river, to the reeve himself at the top. All he had to do was move a few paces to his right to collect a bucket from Cecily, then carry it a few paces to his left to hand it to his mother. It was less backbreaking for all concerned, the reeve was happy as everyone thought it had been his idea, and the villagers were smiling, one or two even having the breath to sing as they worked. Edwin revelled in the monotony of his task, secure in the knowledge that he was part of a group, and not some strange individual who didn’t fit anywhere. He sighed. He hadn’t done much of the thinking he’d promised himself, and time was growing short. What would happen to him if he couldn’t present the earl with the answers he wanted? Would he be dismissed? Would he be happier leaving the earl’s personal service and going back to this? Would the earl let him if he asked? Maybe that would be better for everyone. But as his arms grew tired, he knew this was not for him. Although it was nice to be working with his body for a change, that was what it was – a change. Deep in his heart he knew he would go mad if he could not stretch his mind every day, and not for the first time in his life he wondered what it was about him that made him so different from the other villagers, and why the Lord had chosen to make him so.

The day grew nearer to noon; to add to his aching arms and back, his mind hurt from thinking itself round in circles. Had William Fitzwilliam tried to murder Sir Gilbert by getting Thomas to put poison in something, which had then killed Hamo? In which case, why hadn’t he tried again once his scheme had failed? There was the accident with the horse, of course, but the way Mistress Joanna had told the tale, it was just that – an accident. So maybe Hamo
had
been the intended target. But why would William Fitzwilliam want to kill him, if indeed he was the culprit? Had Edwin got this all wrong?

He stopped to wipe his brow and watched the children scampering to and fro after delivering buckets to Wulfric. Hadn’t there been more of them earlier? Indeed, someone else had noticed one of the children was missing – a father towards the top of the bucket chain was calling out, worried, though he didn’t leave his place in the line. Others started to look around them and call out, and it wasn’t long before a boy of about five appeared from a clump of reeds on the riverbank. He ran to his father, who picked him up, hugged him, put him down, clouted him on the back of the head, and sent him on his way up to the top to collect another bucket.

As the sun reached its high point the reeve called for a rest, and the grateful villagers congregated on the riverbank. A solitary tree offered some little shade, and the two pregnant women among them sat down next to the trunk, fanning their faces and rubbing their backs. Bread was produced, supplemented for some by onions or hard cheese, and everyone gave their attention to eating. After his brief meal and a few draughts from his aleskin, Edwin stood – he had to go back to the castle. But he’d stood up too suddenly, and the pulsing in his head caused him to feel dizzy. He went down to the water’s edge, soaked his neckcloth in water, wiped his face and then put it back round his neck. It would be dry again by the time he got back, but he could get some water from the well. He bade his mother and Cecily goodbye and gave a brief wave to the others. There was some grumbling among the men about shirking his share, but the reeve, knowing they’d be able to accomplish twice as much thanks to Edwin’s idea, walked with him some few yards and murmured that he’d make sure his strip was watered along with the others. Then they’d move another quarter of a mile along the river to the next field and be able to do the same again before night fell.

Edwin made his way back along the scorching path towards the village, squinting in the blinding brightness, his head still pounding. He staggered. There seemed to be flashes of light around him. When he reached the shade of a couple of trees he stopped, took the aleskin from his belt and gulped down the rest of the contents. It tasted different from how it tasted straight from the barrel, of course, but it was refreshing nonetheless. He didn’t know how nobles could drink wine all the time – the great chamber had smelled of it when he was there, and frankly he’d found it had made his head swim.

He paused in the act of stoppering the skin again, trying to force himself to think straight. Wine. Poison was an indiscriminate weapon, so how would a murderer ensure that he only killed his chosen target? He’d put it in something which only certain people were going to drink. And a special barrel of wine had been ordered for the bridal couple. He had to go and tell Sir Geoffrey about this.

He started back on his way, but the headache turned to dizziness, and the dizziness to nausea. He stopped by the edge of the road to vomit, then staggered on. The flashing lights continued, splintering the world around him. Somehow he reached the village, but it was deserted, the very old, the very young and those about to give birth dozing, and everyone else out in the fields or at their daily work in the castle. He reeled. By the time he reached the church he couldn’t see his way at all. The light was so bright that the ground was moving, and there were strange dark spots appearing before his eyes. He went into the graveyard. Why was he here? Wasn’t there something important he was supposed to be doing? But the sun had tipped over from its high point and one end of the church offered some shade. Oh, the relief of being out of the light. The stone was quite cool. No, he really had to go and see someone about something, didn’t he? He’d just rest here a few moments, and then he’d remember what it was.

He fell to his knees, then lay down on the welcoming ground, and passed out.

‘Edwin. Edwin, wake up!’

Through the thumping of his head, a voice was speaking from far away. He tried to reply but only managed to groan, a groan which turned into a whimper as he moved his head.

‘Edwin, talk to me, lad, I can’t tell whether you’re alive or dead.’

Very cautiously, Edwin opened one of his eyes a little way. He wasn’t blinded. He was in a patch of shade, and William Steward was leaning over him, one hand gripping his shoulder and shaking him. Edwin licked his dry lips. ‘I’m alive, uncle. I’m alive.’ He opened both eyes. The patch of shade was now quite large. ‘How long have I been here?’

William shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I came to find Father Ignatius and I found you lying here. It’s late in the afternoon.’

‘What? It was only noon when I – ’ Edwin tried to raise himself but the world started spinning again and he subsided.

‘You’re all right, lad, probably just too much sun. It happens sometimes.’

Edwin felt ashamed of himself. Everyone else, children and pregnant women included, had been working out in the heat all day; he’d managed a few hours and then fainted. What a weakling.

‘Listen, let’s try getting you sat up, and then I’ll fetch you something to drink. You’ll be fine after that.’ William, sitting awkwardly himself with his crutches thrown beside him, managed to get one of his arms around Edwin and heaved him up like a sack of turnips until he was in a sitting position. Edwin leaned his back against the wall of the church and waited for everything to stop spinning. William began the laborious process of dragging himself upright; Edwin knew it would be pointless offering to help, partly as he couldn’t stand up himself, and partly as he didn’t think he could bear William shouting at him to say he wasn’t a helpless babe. So he said nothing.

Eventually William stood. ‘See? That leg’s getting better – it won’t be long until I can go back to work.’

And thank the Lord for that, thought Edwin, though he still didn’t speak.

‘Right, stay there and don’t move until I get back. Then once you’ve rested and drunk, you can get on with whatever you’re supposed to be doing.’ He began to haul himself away.

Yes, thought Edwin, I can get on with whatever I’m supposed to be doing, but what was that? I was on my way back from the field, and I was going to the castle, wasn’t I? But why? Oh, how my head aches. But at least things are starting to look a bit straighter now, it must be wearing off. But I won’t try getting up just yet.

He looked out over the graveyard. It looked peaceful from here, for there were no new graves within his line of sight – just older ones, mounds of grass of different sizes undulating gently up to the fence, the odd wooden cross leaning, and occasional wildflowers striking their bright notes against the parched grass. Strange how such a gentle covering could mask the seething corruption underneath; all those bodies rotting away and filled with worms and maggots. Appearances could be so deceptive. But it was just their bodies: their immortal souls were making their journey through purgatory to the bliss of heaven. The loss of his father suddenly hit Edwin again and he felt like weeping, although no tears fell from his eyes.

Time passed. It would take William some time to find both a drink and someone to carry it for him. Edwin stared into the distance for what seemed a long while before he noticed a movement at the other end of the churchyard. It was Peter, kneeling where his family were buried. His little shoulders were shaking. Edwin didn’t like to interfere, but he couldn’t stand to see such misery without trying to help. He was feeling more like himself now, anyway. He got up, very slowly, and picked his way through the mounds to where the boy was.

Peter looked up in some alarm when the shadow fell over him, but even as he half-rose to flee, he saw who it was and sank back down. He lowered his head and scrubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. ‘I wasn’t crying.’

Edwin sat carefully beside him, far enough away so that the boy wouldn’t feel threatened. The dizziness had receded, thank the Lord. ‘Of course you weren’t.’ He leaned back, unsure of what to say, and exhausted.

Peter sniffed loudly and drew his arm across his face again. The tunic had once been fine, but Edwin thought that it probably wouldn’t last too long if it was treated like that all the time.

‘Your father was a good man.’

Edwin was surprised, having never known Peter start a conversation before. He sighed. ‘Yes, he was.’

‘Mine wasn’t.’

Edwin struggled to remember Peter the elder. He had a vague recollection of a man with a limp and rotten teeth whom he’d never really spoken to. ‘Why do you say that?’

Peter shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He used to beat us, even my baby brother when he cried,’ he gestured towards a tiny mound to his left, ‘and especially when he’d had ale. But … ’

There was silence for a moment. ‘But what?’ The boy’s head had gone down again. ‘You can tell me.’

It came out in a wail. ‘But I miss him! And my brother and sister, and m-m-my mother!’ His voice rose as he burst into tears and flung himself at Edwin.

Edwin couldn’t help it – he put his arms around the small figure and held him as he sobbed uncontrollably, rocking him back and forth and making comforting noises until the tears subsided. Was this what it was like to have a child of your own? He felt almost unbearably protective of the boy. Here he was, feeling sorry for himself because of his headache, and missing his father, but he was a man grown and could stand in his own shoes. Besides, he still had his mother and his friends – Peter had lost everything, and he was still a child. And until Sir Roger had shown the compassion to intervene, nobody had cared.

Edwin shifted his weight, his arms still about the boy. How best to comfort him? ‘Peter. Tell me something you remember about your father that you liked.’

Peter stopped and looked up, his eyes puffy but showing interest. ‘Something I remember?’

‘Yes. There must be something that you used to enjoy, or something he did which you liked.’

There was a pause while Peter thought about it, wiping his sleeve absent-mindedly across his face again. ‘When he was happy, he would throw me in the air, and I would be flying.’ For the first time there was the hint of a smile. ‘And he always made sure that when there was something to eat, that we all had some and not just him.’

Edwin was encouraged. ‘What else?’

Peter thought for a moment, tears forgotten. ‘Even when there wasn’t much to eat, he tried to get us something. Sometimes we would go to the wood to look for mushrooms or nuts, and he showed me how to trap wild birds. Or sometimes we went to the mill at night time to see if there was any flour left over we could pick up.’

‘You stole?’

Peter looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes. But only leftovers and only because we were hungry. He made sure we didn’t starve. He was my Pa and he wouldn’t make me do anything bad.’

Edwin nodded. ‘No father would, who really loved his son.’ He wondered if his own father would ever have taken to thievery if his family was really in need. What was more important, keeping God’s law or doing everything you could to keep your loved ones from the grave? Not that it had helped Peter’s family in the end – they had all died off in an epidemic of the coughing sickness a few winters ago.

‘I have to go.’ Peter disentangled himself and stood up. ‘I must get back to my lord.’ He puffed out his little chest. ‘He
needs
me.’