Whited Sepulchres (31 page)

Edwin stood up as well, embraced her, and walked out of the door.

He needed to
think
. Since that episode yesterday his head had been much clearer, but he still couldn’t see his way through the tangle. Maybe it was time to cut through all the knots and start again. Henry de Stuteville had not poisoned the wine. That much was true, as he knew to his bitter cost. But Hamo
had
died by poison, of that he was certain – so if Henry de Stuteville hadn’t done it, who had? Should he go back to suspecting William Fitzwilliam? And why had William been seen speaking to Hamo?

He looked up, surprised to find himself in the graveyard. Oh, Father, I need you now more than I’ve ever needed you, but I have to stop doing this, stop coming here and acting as though you are still alive, still ready to help me. I have to stand in my own shoes now.

Edwin tried to empty his mind as he looked down at the grave, to force everything out of his head. He breathed deeply, feeling the air filling his chest and then exhaling to push out the darkness within, the corruption, the mass of confusion. Concentrate only on the grass before you, and nothing else. God’s sweet air in, and the demons out. At length he could feel a kernel of calm inside him, and he exhaled one last time. He crouched and put one hand on the warm earth. The rock of his life. But the rock of his
past
life. ‘Goodbye, Father.’

As he left the graveyard he saw a small group leaving the village: John and his two children – and Godleva. Godleva’s mother and Cecily were bidding them farewell, and Edwin moved to speak to them. ‘What’s going on?’

Godleva’s mother spoke proudly. ‘My daughter’s got married.’

Edwin was taken aback. ‘What?’

Cecily replied. ‘This afternoon, after the Lady Isabelle’s wedding. Didn’t your mother tell you?’

‘Er, no. But …’ Edwin gestured to the graveyard, where John’s first wife had been lying for less than one day.

Godleva’s mother took on a defensive tone. ‘Well, the man can hardly keep his own house while he’s working in the fields, and the little girl isn’t more than three – a few years off being able to take care of the place. He needs a wife, and where else is he going to get one? He won’t be back here until the Michaelmas fair, probably.’ She looked belligerently at Edwin, and he felt obliged to say something.

‘Well … congratulations. I hope she’ll be happy.’

He received a snort in reply. ‘Happy? Maybe she will and maybe she won’t, but she won’t starve – he’s got a nice place out there near the Sprotborough road.’

Edwin looked after the departing group. John was carrying a pack – Sir Geoffrey had seen to it that some dried meat from the castle kitchen and a couple of bags of oats and beans had been supplied as recompense for the loss of his pig, for it wasn’t in the best interests of the earl’s estate to let a good working man starve – and he had one arm about the shoulders of his son, whose arm was still bound but who had lost the deathly pallor he had arrived with. Cecily expected him to make a good recovery, thank God, for a one-armed man wouldn’t be much use in the fields in the years to come. John was calling to Godleva to keep up as she toted both the little girl, strapped to her hip, and the small bundle which constituted her dowry and possessions.

Edwin wasn’t quite sure how he felt. He’d certainly been uncomfortable when Godleva had made advances to him, but perversely his pride felt dented that she had dropped him so quickly and transferred her attentions to another. But John had been able to offer what he wasn’t ready for: an immediate marriage and a home of her own.

A home near the Sprotborough road.

He ran after them, shouting for them to stop. They turned in surprise as he barrelled up to them, Godleva smiling as though he’d come to speak to her. He ignored her and addressed John. ‘You live near the Sprotborough road.’ John nodded. ‘But you didn’t actually say it was him, did you? You just said a lord.’

John looked confused. ‘What you talkin’ about, boy?’

Edwin started again. ‘You said you’d seen Hamo talking to a lord. And because you live out that way, I assumed you meant William Fitzwilliam. But you didn’t mention his name, did you?’

‘I told you, I don’t know what he were called. Just a lord.’

‘What did he look like, this lord? Tall and very thin? Neat little beard?’

John shook his head. ‘Nay. A big man, not thin. And a great bushy beard.’

Edwin’s mind was racing. John was still looking at him. ‘Is that all you needed? We’ve a way to go before dark.’

Edwin came back to himself. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Thank you.’ He looked at Godleva. ‘And … good luck.’

He watched the new family set off on the long road to their holding. They would have a hard life there, especially in the winter, but they would be together.

In the meantime, he had some more thinking to do. Henry de Stuteville had been seen talking to Hamo. He needed to go up to the castle.

As he neared the great hall his pace slowed. He’d been let through both the outer and inner gate without a problem, so maybe word of his disgrace hadn’t spread too far yet, or at least not enough to see him arrested. But his courage failed him and he stopped outside the door. Everyone in there would have seen what happened last night, and they’d all start whispering about him. What would F – , but no, he wasn’t going to think like that any more. He was his own man. He would go in, however difficult it was.

Edwin could feel his face become hot as he entered the hall. Everyone was looking at him, faces turning as he trudged past, shoulders hunched. He changed his mind and was about to turn and leave, but a white-robed arm reached out to stop him.

It was Brother William. ‘Come now, come. There’s no need to run away. The Lord visits humiliation on us sometimes, and we have to face it like men. Come, and sit.’

Edwin didn’t really want to, but Brother William’s arm was strong, so he lifted his legs over the bench and sat down.

Fortunately not too many people had noticed him, as the kitchen servants were now bringing in the sweet dishes for the nobles and the spiced wine to go with them. The greatest spectacle was a huge marchpane in the shape of the castle keep, which was carried in by two men who heaved it up on to the centre of the high table. As it went past, Edwin could see that it even had little shields around it, presumably made of sugar paste or something edible, coloured with the coats of arms of the earl and his guests. It was a masterpiece, and the ladies on the dais clapped their hands in appreciation.

Brother William pushed some stew towards him. ‘Now, eat something. It’ll do you good.’

Edwin didn’t think he’d be able to force any of it down, but he took his spoon out of his belt pouch and pushed the food around. Brother William, who was tucking in heartily, nudged him. ‘Come on, it’s very good – not as nice as that gigantic marchpane on the high table, maybe, but tasty. And better for your soul, as well. Just look at that thing up there – with the cost of the sugar on that, you could feed a poor family for weeks.’

The spoon stopped moving. Edwin stared at his bowl. He wasn’t seated in the same place he had been on the evening when Hamo had died, but he could still picture the scene. Hamo had stood and stared at him and at Brother William; he hadn’t eaten as he would do so later once everyone else was fed. And while he stood, Thomas had slipped out behind him, his mouth full of stolen sugar. Thomas, who had run away in terror after realising the consequences of using poison. But he hadn’t poisoned the wine.

Edwin looked up to the high table. Slices of marchpane had been carved and were being served to the nobles. The earl was there, his sisters and brothers-in-law, Sir Gilbert, Sir Geoffrey, Sir Roger, Mistress Joanna and the other lady companions. He couldn’t do it. After what had happened yesterday, he absolutely could not stand up and make his accusations again, only this time about the sugar. He couldn’t. He would never, ever live it down. He’d have to leave Conisbrough. The earl would kill him, and if he didn’t, the humiliation would.

He looked again at the guests. They all now had trenchers in front of them with slices of marchpane on. They were looking at the earl to wait for him to start eating first. All those faces. The earl, who had taken him from his ordinary life and made him into more than he’d ever thought to be. The Lady Isabelle, torn between looking eagerly at the marchpane and lovingly at her bridegroom. Sir Gilbert himself, who had been with Edwin at Lincoln, saved his life and brought him home. Sir Roger, who had been his friend and introduced him as an equal to knights. Joanna and the other ladies, innocents all, who might die for nothing. And Sir Geoffrey. Sir Geoffrey, the knight who had been his father’s best friend, who had watched from afar as he himself had learned to walk and to serve his lord. Sir Geoffrey, who didn’t like sweet foods but who would eat it anyway out of politeness to the bride and groom, and so as not to shame the lord whose family he’d served all his life.

It was all so unreal. His legs would hardly hold him up, but Edwin felt himself rising from the bench and walking to the middle of the hall. Would his voice even function? Everyone was looking at him again. Dear Lord, he prayed. Give me strength. He took a deep breath as he saw the earl pick up the slice that would kill him.

‘Stop!’

Only once had Edwin seen his lord so furious. It would take him a long time to get over that memory. And this time it was directed at him.

The earl shoved his chair backwards, knocking his trencher to the floor as he pushed away from the table, and strode round to the front of the dais. Edwin wanted to flee but there was no chance; he was too close. Henry de Stuteville was also standing, fists clenched.

Edwin’s first thought was that the earl was going to hit him, but of course he wouldn’t sully himself doing such a thing in front of his guests. Instead he impaled Edwin with the look which had sent men to the gallows.

He had to say something, but it was all reminding him too much of last night. Henry de Stuteville was looming towards him. ‘My lord, if this is another of this peasant’s futile attempts to – ’

But he was cut short by a dreadful whining scream. Even the earl jumped, and they all turned to look back at the dais, whence the noise emanated. A dog had seen its chance and headed for the earl’s dropped trencher; it had been eating the marchpane but was now throwing itself around in a dreadful agony.

‘Put it down!’ The voice was Sir Geoffrey’s, taking charge of the situation and barking an order at the nobles, heedless of rank. The Lady Isabelle was sitting almost stupefied with her marchpane halfway to her mouth, but Sir Gilbert knocked it out of her hand, looking up and down the table to see that everyone was doing the same.

And so it was that both the knights were concentrating on the noble party, and neither of them saw what Edwin saw: Henry de Stuteville, watching the earl watching the final thrashing of the dog’s death throes, drawing a knife from his sleeve and lunging at the earl’s unprotected back.

Edwin wanted to move, wanted to shout, but he was stunned, rooted, his feet somehow mired in the rushes and made of lead. He could see the blade, he could see his lord half-turning but off balance and unable to get out of the way, he could see the earl’s eyes opening wide at the sight before him, he could see the open mouths of the men trapped behind the table as they realised what was happening and that they were powerless to help.

But suddenly Henry de Stuteville was hurled backwards, the arm holding the knife mercifully thrown up and away from the earl. He crashed down in a heap with his assailant on top of him. While everyone else had been watching the dog, Martin had not taken his eyes off the earl, and he had thrown himself forward to tackle de Stuteville to the ground.

They were thrashing around on the floor, the knife still in de Stuteville’s hand, and Edwin belatedly realised that he should do something to help. He took a step towards them, but already the men from the lower tables were swarming up and he got knocked over in the rush. He fell into a mass of bodies and felt a sting to the side of his face before a hand grabbed the back of his tunic and yanked him out of the melee.

Fighting had broken out in the lower hall as well, as de Stuteville’s men were jumped on and held back by others. The struggle on the dais had reached its conclusion; Henry de Stuteville was hauled to his feet, his arms twisted behind him by four men, his knife in Sir Gilbert’s hand. Sir Geoffrey was helping Martin up. Edwin looked anxiously at him – as, he noted, did Mistress Joanna at the end of the table, her hand held to her mouth in horror – but although the sleeve of his tunic hung torn and loose, he didn’t look like he was bleeding. Thank the Lord.

The earl, who had stood aloof from the brawl, looked around him at the carnage of his sister’s wedding feast. He turned to Edwin. If he’d looked angry before, then now … but praise God and all the saints in His heaven, the fury was not for him. The earl merely took one step towards him and asked, ‘How did you know?’ But as Edwin opened his mouth to reply, he was cut off with a gesture. ‘Never mind that now. It will keep. See to your face and report to me later.’

His face? Edwin put a hand to his cheek and was surprised to see the sticky redness on his fingers. Somebody was still holding his tunic and he saw that it was Brother William. The monk smiled. ‘I told you you’d get yourself in trouble throwing yourself into a rescue like that. But don’t worry, it’s only a scratch – you won’t even have a scar to show for your pains.’ The voice was jocular, but Edwin felt the grip on him tighten. He should go, but he was drawn to the scene before him, the family split asunder. Something still wasn’t quite finished, but he knew it would come to him in a moment.

The earl strode forward to within inches of his would-be murderer. He was shaking with the effort of controlling his fury, and Edwin knew that the rage wouldn’t be held in check for much longer. De Stuteville struggled and heaved in his captors’ grasp, but he couldn’t move. Instead he spat on the floor and swore.

‘Oh Henry, you
idiot!
’