by C. B. Hanley
CAST THE
FIRST STONE
A MEDIAEVAL MYSTERY
CAST THE FIRST STONE
A MEDIAEVAL MYSTERY
C.B. HANLEY
For Emily,
a historian (and editor) in training.
First published by The Mystery Press, 2020
The Mystery Press, an imprint of The History Press
97 St George's Place
Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, gl50 3qb www.thehistorypress.co.uk
© C.B. Hanley, 2020
The right of C.B. Hanley to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 7509 9535 1
Typesetting and origination by The History Press Printed in Great Britain
eBook converted by Geethik Technologies
He that is without sin among you,
let him cast the first stone.
John, ch.8, v.7
Praise for C.B. Hanley’s Mediaeval Mystery Series
‘The Bloody City is a great read, full of intrigue and murder.
Great for readers of Ellis Peters and Lindsey Davis. Hanley weaves a
convincing, rich tapestry of life and death in the early 13th century,
in all its grandeur and filth. I enjoyed this book immensely!’
Ben Kane, bestselling novelist of the Forgotten Legion trilogy
‘Blatantly heroic and wonderfully readable.’
The Bloody City received a STARRED review in Library Journal
‘The characters are real, the interactions and conversations natural,
the tension inbuilt, and it all builds to a genuinely satisfying
conclusion both fictionally and historically.’
Review for The Bloody City in www.crimereview.co.uk
‘Whited Sepulchres … struck me as a wonderfully vivid
recreation of the early thirteenth century … The solid
historical basis lends authenticity to a lively, well-structured
story. I enjoyed the plight of amiable and peace-loving Edwin,
trapped by his creator in such a warlike time and place.’
Andrew Taylor, winner of the 2009 CWA Diamond Dagger
and three-times winner of the CWA Historical Dagger
‘It’s clever. It’s well written. It’s believable.
It’s historically accurate. It’s a first-class medieval mystery.’
Review for Whited Sepulchres in www.crimereview.co.uk
‘Brother’s Blood [is] a gift for medievalists everywhere …
Hanley really knows her stuff. Her knowledge of life in a
Cistercian monastery is impeccable. More please.’
Cassandra Clark, author of the Abbess of Meaux medieval mystery series
‘British author Hanley’s enjoyable fourth medieval whodunnit
will appeal to Ellis Peters fans.’
Review for Brother’s Blood in Publishers Weekly Online
Chapter One
Conisbrough, November 1217
Rivulets of blood were trickling down Conisbrough’s main street, and Edwin picked his way across them so that his new boots wouldn’t get soiled. He was almost home, where a wife and a hot meal awaited him, and once again he had to remind himself that he wasn’t just imagining his good fortune. He was –
‘Master Edwin!’
He turned, peering into the early dusk, to see that he was being hailed by the fast-approaching Hal. He stopped and waited for the panting boy to catch him up.
‘They’re at it again. Father says you’re to come.’
So much for the hot meal and the quiet evening with Alys. Edwin followed Hal, though there was no need: he knew where they were going.
In a village of wooden buildings, the new stone house under construction stood out. Ivo, the recently appointed bailiff, had insisted upon it as a condition of his moving to Conisbrough, and Sir Geoffrey had received the earl’s permission to have the masons work on it in addition to their duties at the castle. A stone house took longer to build than a wooden one, and it was still not complete although Ivo had been here several months; in the meantime, he was temporarily lodged in guest quarters at the castle. However, he visited the site frequently so he could check on progress and argue with the masons, and Edwin heard the sound of raised voices as he approached.
Hal stayed just outside with his father as Edwin stepped through the open doorway and into what would be the main room. There was as yet no proper roof, but half of the wooden trusses had been placed and canvas laid over the top, so that one end of the space was sheltered; it was under this cover that four men were standing.
This time it wasn’t the masons who were on the receiving end; the master and one of his men were off to one side, tools hanging unused in their hands, glad to be out of the way for once as Ivo engaged in a furious stand-up row with the reeve.
‘I’m telling you, that’s not the way we do it around here.’
‘And I’m telling you that that’s the way you’re going to do it from now on!’
‘But you can’t just –’
‘Oh yes I can, and –’
They both broke off as they saw Edwin. He had learned that the best thing to do was not to say anything, so he simply folded his arms and looked at them.
It was the reeve who broke first. ‘Edwin. Can’t you just …’ He flapped his arm in a helpless gesture.
Ivo looked down the considerable length of his nose. ‘I fail to see what it’s got to do with him.’ He turned to Edwin. ‘But now you’re here, perhaps you can talk some sense into him. I’m the earl’s representative, so I can overrule any man here, and the sooner he realises it – the sooner you all realise it – the better for everyone.’
He stalked out, and there was a long moment of silence.
Edwin addressed the masons first, switching to their native French. ‘At least it wasn’t you this time.’
Philippe, the master, inclined his head. ‘This time, no. But it will be again, no doubt, as he has no conception of how building work is done. I did not catch all of their argument, but it would appear that our friend here is having a similar experience. Monsieur Ivo is good at giving orders but has little idea of practical matters.’
‘I’ll talk to him. Perhaps you’d better go for now.’
‘Yes. It is getting too dark to work anyway. I will send two men down tomorrow if I can spare them from the castle. Come, Denis.’ He nodded at his man and they departed.
Once they were gone, young Hal opened his mouth to speak, but his father, who was still hovering by the door, shushed him. ‘Quiet, boy. It’s not your place.’ He bobbed his head at Edwin and the reeve. ‘We’ll be off then.’
‘Thank you for calling me, Alwin, it was the right thing to do. Hal, be a good lad and run to Alys for me. Tell her I’ll be a little while more but I won’t be too late.’ The boy nodded and turned. ‘Oh, and you look hungry – ask her if you might eat yours while you’re waiting.’
Hal’s grateful smile was visible in the gloom as he departed, and Edwin was left with the reeve. If this was going to be one of those conversations, he thought, he may as well sit down; he made his way
past more roof beams stacked waiting to be used, and found a couple of blocks of stone packed in straw at the far end of the dry space. He sat and gestured for the reeve to do likewise.
‘So, what was it this time?’
The reeve expelled a long breath. It was funny, reflected Edwin, that he always thought of the man facing him only by his job. He did have a name, but unfortunately for him it was Theophilus, far too much of a mouthful for most of the local folk to bother with, so they tended just to call him Reeve, as though that was his name. In any case, he’d held the position so long – being elected unopposed by the villagers every year since Edwin could remember – that he was now indistinguishable from it anyway.
‘It’s nothing too big – not yet, anyway – but it’s just this constant way he has of picking up on every small thing, wanting to change the way we do it. Yesterday he was all for having the widow Mabel up at the manor court for grinding a bit of grain between two stones, when we all know she can’t afford to pay the miller, and she hasn’t got half a sack to take to him anyway. And today it was Osmund for using the wrong type of snare for rabbits. Lord knows what it’ll be next, but I’m honestly starting to get the feeling that he’s doing it on purpose just to rub people up the wrong way.’
Edwin reflected that there might well be a grain of truth in that: maybe Ivo was trying to impose himself in his new position, but just going about it badly. He’d certainly made enough mistakes in his own unfamiliar role over these past months, so he was hardly in a position to criticise. But there was something rather … petty, was the best word he could come up with, about Ivo.
The reeve was continuing. ‘Can’t you have a word? Can’t you do anything?’
Edwin shook his head. ‘You know I don’t have any authority.’
‘You have, though – everyone knows it. You’re not just Godric’s son any more – you’re the earl’s man, and Sir Geoffrey’s stepson now, to boot. And Ivo’s trying to get rid of me, after all the years I’ve worked in peace with your father.’
Edwin opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to interrupt.
‘And look, if we can’t rely on you to help, you being one of us – supposedly, anyway – then who can we ask? He’s the bailiff, we have to do what he says, but he’s going to make everyone’s life a misery. And if we have a hard winter, I’m telling you he might even cause death.’
That was not a word Edwin liked to hear, having seen so much of it during the past year. He didn’t really want to get involved in this, but what choice was there? Eventually he nodded. ‘All right. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’
The reeve stood. ‘You have my thanks. And, you know, it might do you some good round here too.’ He passed out through the doorway, leaving Edwin to ponder his cryptic parting remark.
Edwin remained where he was for a little while, certain that nobody would enter to disturb him. Life was meant to be simpler now that the war was over, and he had looked forward to coming home to enjoy peace and quiet for a time while the earl was far away at his castle of Lewes, at the other end of the realm. He’d even arrived as the bringer of good news, for he carried with him the earl’s permission for Sir Geoffrey, Conisbrough’s castellan, to marry. And marry he had, to none other than Edwin’s widowed mother, whose life and status had altered to a dizzying extent as soon as they had made their vows. Sir Geoffrey, of course, would return to continue his duties at Conisbrough, but he was currently away: he had taken his new wife to visit his own manor so that she could be seen and recognised by his people there, and they were not due back for another two or three weeks. In the meantime, the Conisbrough garrison was in the temporary charge of Sir Roger, another of the earl’s knights, but he was … well, best not think of that now. Suffice it to say that Edwin would very much have appreciated having Sir Geoffrey’s firm and familiar hand and iron discipline looming over the castle and the village at this point.
As it stood, then, the only voice of authority about the place was Ivo, the new bailiff, who was responsible for law, order and the good running of all the earl’s Conisbrough estates, just as Edwin’s father had been for many years. And this was where Edwin’s own position had become awkward. For most of his life, Edwin had expected to be appointed bailiff whenever his father should die or become too old or infirm to hold the post. And the villagers had expected it, too; his sudden promotion to an ill-defined position as ‘earl’s man’ and the consequent imposition of a stranger upon them had taken them all by surprise, and they weren’t reacting to it overly well. Throw into the mix that Ivo himself was confused about – and therefore probably suspicious of – Edwin, and there was bound to be trouble ahead. Ivo could not quite clarify to himself whether Edwin outranked him or not, so he veered between appealing to his authority with the villagers and treating him with a sort of jeering superciliousness.
Anyway, the current situation was that the bailiff and the villagers had been in constant low-level conflict for three months, that boiling point had not yet been reached but probably would sometime soon, and that in the absence of any higher power and with nobody else to complain to, both sides had got into the habit of coming to Edwin with grumbles and requests for arbitration.
But sitting here in the gathering dark wasn’t going to help anything, and he was hungry. He peered out. Ivo was gone, everyone was safe in their own cottages, and Edwin was thankfully undisturbed as he made his way home.
Alys had the meal prepared and the table set. She had also checked on the animals, cleaned the house, remade the bed – twice – and gone through the stores, which she already knew down to the last grain. She stood at the door for a while, looking out at the small village and the empty street, and sighed. But it wouldn’t do to let the cold evening air in, and the draught was starting to make the fire smoke, so she came back and sat down to stare at the four walls.
Her hands moved without thinking to tuck the distaff in her belt; she took up her spindle and started work, the rhythmic movements the only thing that remained familiar from her previous life. Of course she had done the right thing in uprooting herself to come here and marry Edwin, and of course she loved him dearly, but after a lifetime in one of England’s biggest and busiest cities, being stuck in this cottage, in this village, cooking and cleaning and caring for just one person, was just not enough. At first she’d had Mistress Anne, Edwin’s mother, to talk to and show her around, but in the three or so weeks since Anne’s wedding Alys had enjoyed no meaningful conversation with anyone except Edwin, and he was out most of each day.
Some of the other villagers tried to help, telling her to enjoy the peace while she might. Wait until you have children, the older women would say, nodding to each other sagely. Then you’ll know what busy is. And each time Alys forbore from noting that she had already brought up three children, while running a shop at the same time; she just smiled, nodded, pushed the scream down inside and went back to her spinning. Looking now over the yarn she’d produced since her arrival, and on the slow journey before that, she saw that there was now a good amount, and that anger and frustration hadn’t spoiled its quality. As she waited for Edwin to come home, she eyed a corner of the cottage. Might a loom fit there? Would anyone here know how to build a proper one?
The door banged open and she looked up to see young Hal. He at least was a welcome and useful addition to the household. Alys had not yet grasped the complexities of rural work – words like oxgang and virgate meant nothing to her, much to the amusement of the local girls – but she knew that Edwin had more strips of land than could be worked by one man, especially when that man wasn’t free to toil in the fields most of the time anyway. The family had for some while employed a landless labourer to work for them, but since Edwin’s father’s death and his own new duties even that wasn’t enough, so he’d taken on a boy as well. Hal was twelve years old, and he helped out not just in the fields but also around the house; in return he received fourpence a week and ate his evening meal with th
em each day, a Godsend to his own family who were relieved of one mouth to feed as well as benefiting from the income.
He always entered the house as though a whirlwind was behind him, but he had at least now learned to stop and shut the door. He did so now and came forward to rub his hands together in front of the fire as he bobbed his head.
‘Master Edwin says he’ll be late, but not too late.’ He licked his lips, and Alys heard his stomach rumble. ‘He said I could ask if I could have mine now?’ he added, hopefully.
Alys smiled and put down her spindle. ‘Sit down, then.’ She ladled a generous helping of pottage into a bowl and placed it in front of him with a hunk of bread, then started work again as he shovelled it in.
She produced several more yards of yarn. Hal finished his meal, wiped the last of the bread around the bowl, ate it, and then picked up all the crumbs from the table and licked them off his fingers. And still Edwin had not returned. Alys sighed. ‘Off you go, then.’
The spindle was nearly full by the time the door opened again. This time it was Edwin himself, and Alys’s heart lifted as he smiled at her. She helped him off with his cloak and laid it over the kist in the corner as he splashed water over his hands and face and sat at the table.
They ate, and as usual he complimented the meal and thanked her for it – something few men did – but she could see that there was something on his mind. She waited to see if he would mention it, but instead he looked about him and shook his head in disbelief. ‘It looks so different in here.’
Alys had to agree, for the cottage was much improved since she had first seen it on her arrival in the summer. There had been some previous agreement between Edwin and the earl regarding their marriage, and not long after Edwin had returned from the south coast a number of items of new furniture had been delivered, along with a heavy bag of pennies that were to serve as her dowry. This last was most welcome, as Alys felt embarrassed that she had brought nothing to the union except a few bolts of cloth; the coins were now safely buried against a time of need. The furniture was as fine as Alys had seen in some of the merchants’ houses back in Lincoln: a carved kist in this main room and another in the bedchamber; a sideboard that was too large for their collection of plates and cups; a new table, bench and stools; and Edwin now sat at the head of the table on a real chair, one with a back. He seemed constantly overwhelmed by the new surroundings, and to be honest some of it – particularly the sideboard – did look out of place in the simple cottage. Neighbours had made regular visits to view, gossip and then grumble under their breath about luck and how some people were getting above themselves.
