Whited Sepulchres (32 page)

Along with everyone else, Edwin looked round to see the Lady Maud, face contorted, shrieking at her husband. ‘You fool! That poison was our only chance! And now look what you’ve – ’

Edwin nodded to himself as uproar broke out again.

Edwin stood in the earl’s council chamber. It was dark and cool; even the hot midsummer sunshine couldn’t penetrate the thick walls of the keep, so they had no residual warmth now it was dark. The room was lit by more candles than his mother would use in a year, and proper wax ones too, so that they cast a more even light without spluttering and making everyone’s face jump about. He’d been with Sir Geoffrey after the meal as he’d questioned Henry de Stuteville; initially he had been worried that they might have to use force, but it had been easier than he expected – the formerly larger-than-life lord had deflated, and he confessed everything.

‘So,’ Edwin concluded, ‘to start with I thought he wanted to kill Sir Gilbert, so he wouldn’t be my lord’s heir, but of course he still wouldn’t be next, so that didn’t make sense. Then I wondered if his plan was to have William Fitzwilliam accused of his crime, but surely that was too feeble a premise to stake his future on.’ He looked at his audience: the earl in his great chair, flanked by Sir Geoffrey and Sir Gilbert, with Martin, Adam and Eustace looming in the outer reaches of the light. The earl nodded for him to continue. ‘It was when I accused him of poisoning the wine, my lord,’ he winced at the memory of his humiliation in the great hall, ‘he was so happy to drink it – surely an innocent man might have wondered if the wine really was poisoned, even if he hadn’t done it himself? But he was so sure it wasn’t poisoned that he must have
known
. And he could only know that if he was the perpetrator himself, and it was something else he’d tampered with. And then the sugar – the marchpane – I knew. He did want to kill Sir Gilbert, but he wanted to kill the rest of you as well. Then he and the lady M-M – ’ he couldn’t bring himself to say her name out loud, not in front of the earl – ‘they would have your earldom now, my lord, your lands and your power.’

He stopped for a moment while they took this in. Eventually the earl nodded again and Edwin continued, his voice shaking at the enormity of what he was saying. ‘So they needed you gone, my lord, and Sir Gilbert; they couldn’t leave the Lady Isabelle in case she married again; and they needed to kill your other sister and goodbrother to make sure. The way the realm is at the moment they could talk their way out of a mass poisoning – especially if they’d made themselves a little ill at the same time – and especially if they promised all your lands and men in support of the king and the lord regent. Henry de Stuteville said himself, my lord, that he believes in forward planning, and I think they’ve been working on this ever since you announced that Sir Gilbert was going to marry the Lady Isabelle.’

The earl exhaled. ‘And they were this close to succeeding.’ Edwin knew he didn’t need to bother answering that. The earl looked at his companions. ‘But here we are, and we must move on from here.’

Sir Gilbert spoke first. ‘What will you do, my lord?’

The earl shrugged. ‘She is my sister, and he her husband. I can’t execute my own blood, and nor will I deliver them to the lord regent to do so.’

Edwin was shattered. This was all happening like it had before. Nobody cared that Hamo was dead – his conscience pricked him a little, knowing that he hadn’t had Hamo uppermost in his thoughts either – and a nobleman could escape being brought to justice because of his birth. But he didn’t attempt to argue or protest: this was the way of his new world and he needed to get used to it.

The earl was continuing. ‘But I will make sure they leave these shores and travel to their lands in Normandy, never to return.’

Sir Geoffrey nodded. ‘He can’t harm you in exile, my lord.’ He paused. ‘And Sir William?’

The earl looked up at Edwin. ‘Well, from what you say he had nothing to do with it?’

Edwin nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. When Hamo shouted for “William” in his death throes, it was his brother he was calling for, the brother he thought was dead but had seen in the hall. Maybe he thought it was a ghost who was killing him, seeing as there was nobody else in the room. The noises weren’t a struggle, they were just him kicking things over as he died. As you saw from the dog in the hall, my lord, it must have been very painful.’ He swallowed. ‘I thought at first that Sir William had persuaded Thomas to put the poison in the sugar, but I soon realised he wouldn’t do that to his son. Then I found out that Henry de Stuteville had been seen talking to Hamo – I can’t think that he tried to get Hamo to do anything deliberately, my lord, otherwise he would have said something – he wasn’t popular in the household but he was loyal to you.’ Maybe his conscience would rest a little easier for that. ‘But there was probably some discussion of how Lord Henry would pay his donation for becoming a monk’ – the earl looked surprised, but he didn’t interrupt – ‘if Hamo would assist him in some way. But obviously he didn’t get anywhere, so he turned his attention to Thomas instead. My guess would be that he framed it as a joke, as Thomas loved – loves – a prank. And when Hamo ate his meal that night, he just couldn’t resist the temptation to help himself to some of that sugar to go with it.’

There was silence for a moment before the earl spoke again. ‘So, William shall go free. But I will not have that cursed boy in my household any longer, even if he doesn’t turn up dead.’

The other knights indicated their agreement. ‘But how will we find him, my lord?’ asked Sir Gilbert.

Edwin couldn’t help interrupting. ‘I think I can help you there, my lord. I mean – I don’t know where he is, he ran away when he realised what he’d done, but he’s been gone so long that he must have found a hiding place or we’d have found him by now. And I know someone who knows every haven for a small boy for a mile around.’

The earl nodded once more, then stretched his arms out and yawned. ‘Good. Search again at first light. If you find him, send him to me, and you yourself report here after dinner tomorrow morning.’

Edwin bowed, a little less awkwardly than he had a few weeks ago, and left the room.

At the outer gate he had to rouse the porter to let him out, and then he walked down the road to the village. For the first time in many nights the moon was covered by cloud, so he couldn’t really see, but he was used to the walk and didn’t stumble. It would be light within an hour or two, so there wasn’t much point in going to bed – he didn’t think he’d sleep, anyway. He made his way back to the cottage and sat down outside it, under the eaves, his back against the daub wall. Families. What terrible things could be hidden within them. It was almost worth not having one. But, as he leaned against the wall which his father had made, lovingly, as a shelter for his beloved wife and son, he realised that wasn’t the answer either. His parents had been two halves of the same whole, and he wanted that for himself, he knew that now. Not for him the life of the priest, or even that of the man so dedicated to his work that he didn’t marry, like Hamo, who had died alone and in pain.

He put his head back and allowed himself, finally, to bring Alys fully into his mind. He could see her so clearly that it was as if she were there. He savoured her smile as he savoured the quiet of the sleeping village. There was something oddly comforting about being the only person awake, as though he were watching over them. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax as he waited for the sun to come up.

He must have dozed off, for the light came more quickly than he expected, and the sounds of waking issued from each cottage. He rose stiffly. He put his head round the cottage door to let his mother know he was alive and well, and then set off back up the castle road. Thank the Lord the day was cloudy and overcast, and he could smell a certain dampness in the air.

As he drew near to the outer gate, he met the minstrel coming the other way, a pack over his shoulder. He was singing to himself, but the same few lines over and over again, consulting a piece of parchment as he did so.
Li ciels est clairs, li airs est purs, Ades s’en vait li tans oscurs
. Very appropriate, thought Edwin: the sky is clear, the air is pure, and the dark time is receding. He called out a greeting and the man stopped.

The minstrel smiled. ‘Ah, it’s you. I heard about what happened – by the time the tale got round the whole place it turned out you saved the lord earl and his family by fighting off a hundred men at once.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll write a song about it.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that, but yes, I helped the earl, thank the Lord. Where are you going now?’

The minstrel waved his arms expansively. ‘Who knows? I’ve the open road, a purse of money and a new song to learn. What could be better?’

For just a tiny moment, Edwin envied him. No cares, no responsibilities, no master. But then again, no employment, no security, no home. No wife. That life was not for him.

‘Well, I’ll bid you farewell then. I enjoyed your performances, and I wish you luck on your journey, wherever it is you’re going.’

The minstrel shook his hand. ‘York, probably – there’s always good pickings there. But I’ll stop off at a few places on the way. Good luck to you too.’ And he was off, with the easy loping gait of a man who walked many miles, looking down at his parchment and up to the sky as he sang his new lines.
The earth moves from death to life, the lark sings of love
…

Edwin watched him as he took the road north, before turning back and entering the castle.

He might have known that Sir Geoffrey would be up already, although he couldn’t work out from the knight’s tireless face whether he’d napped for a couple of hours or not slept at all. He explained his plan and Sir Geoffrey nodded in approval and pointed, so Edwin made his way to the guest quarters. He’d never been in here before, and God forbid he should knock on the wrong door and wake an angry noble.

One door had three guards standing outside it, so he murmured a greeting and crept past – he didn’t think they would be enough to protect him if he came face to face with Henry de Stuteville. He reached the end of the passageway and tapped softly on the door there. After a moment it was opened by Peter, who put his finger to his lips and pointed at Sir Roger, who was on his knees praying. Edwin waited until the knight had finished and crossed himself, and then he entered.

Sir Roger smiled. ‘Ah, a hero again, I hear?’ He stood and clapped Edwin on the shoulder.

Edwin smiled back. ‘Thank you, Sir Roger. But there’s one part of the mystery yet to solve, and I think Peter can help.’

They both looked at the little boy, who was standing open-mouthed. Sir Roger laughed. ‘Come now, Peter, this is your chance to be a hero too. You’ll help Edwin for me, won’t you? There’s a good lad.’

Peter nodded eagerly and followed them outside, where they found Sir Geoffrey and Martin. Edwin saw him flinch a little, but Martin patted him encouragingly and Sir Geoffrey made an effort to look less stern.

‘Now, Peter. As you know, Thomas, the lord earl’s page, went missing three days ago. We’ve looked in all the obvious places, but we haven’t found him. So I thought that you might be able to help – nobody will know all the places he might be hiding better than you.’ Edwin hoped he was right and wasn’t about to look foolish just as he’d managed to redeem himself with the earl.

But Peter was already looking about him keenly, and then, without a word, he trotted off out of the inner gate. The men looked at each other and followed him.

Edwin almost lost sight of the boy in the outer ward, for the sun was properly up now and the business of the day was beginning. But there he was, slipping past the stables. He hesitated briefly outside the doghouse, and waited for Edwin to catch up. ‘Three days?’ Edwin nodded. ‘They’d have found him in there by now. No, he must be …’ Peter darted off again, almost skipping through the crowds. He reached the smithy and stopped uncertainly in front of the imposing figure of Crispin, who stood scowling with his huge burn-scarred arms folded.

The smith relaxed when he saw who was following the boy. ‘What can I do for you, Sir Geoffrey, Sir Roger?’ He nodded at Edwin and Martin.

Sir Geoffrey was perplexed. ‘To be honest I am not quite sure.’

Edwin looked at the smithy. Other than the stables it was the largest of the buildings in the outer ward, but it was all open inside, with plenty of room for the forge, the anvil, the racks of tools and the finished weapons and implements. A leather curtain marked off the small corner where Crispin slept, but Thomas couldn’t possibly be in there. And the building backed directly on to the castle’s outer wall, the thatch sloping up to it, so there couldn’t be any room behind it either.

They all watched in some confusion as Peter inserted himself in the gap between the smithy and the building next to it, the lean-to which belonged to the fletcher. They followed him to the mouth of the alley and saw him reach the outer wall. He looked up at the smithy roof, high above his head, then put his hands and feet into dents in the wall – barely perceptible toe-holds; he climbed up and disappeared into the thatch. Edwin squeezed himself down the alley and looked up, seeing a small opening in the straw. There was silence for a moment, then a squeak and a loud scrabbling. Then two small boys fell out of the thatch, rolling over and over. Thomas, for it was he, kicked Peter in the belly and managed to get away; he streaked past Edwin and towards the mouth of the alley – only to thump into Martin, who caught him easily and lifted him off the ground, still shrieking and protesting.