[Mediaeval Mystery 06] - Cast the First Stone

by C. B. Hanley

  The evenings were Alys’s favourite time; the day’s tasks were done and she had Edwin all to herself. Unlike many other couples, they hadn’t grown up in the same place, so there was still lots to learn about the other’s previous life, their likes and dislikes, their hopes and fears. And with the door shut and the fire glowing, the cottage was a safe little haven from all that might be outside; it was theirs, and theirs alone. Alys’s discontent, as it did every day, faded with the light.

  The next morning started like any other. The air was chill and the bed was warm, and Alys was loath to get out of it, but the fire needed reawakening and there were tasks to be accomplished. Edwin set off for the castle, as he normally did; it was teeming down with rain so she warmed his new fur-lined cloak near the fire while he readied himself. Then, with a kiss, he was gone, and she was alone once more.

  Keep busy. That was the thing to do. She had already made the bed, scrubbed the table and swept the floor of both rooms when she heard the call of the swineherd outside, so she pulled up her hood, wrapped a shawl about her and stepped out into the weather. Gyrth was making his way along the street, collecting the pigs from each house and herding them along in the direction of the woods. He waited, patiently and vacantly, as she unfastened the stiff and soaking gate to let out the two they were keeping for the winter. He mumbled something and passed on his way. He was a large, strapping youth, but a simpleton who understood little and said less. Still, he was a good hand with the village pigs, spending so much time with them that he knew them all individually, and taking care to move them around the woods to where the best acorns could be found to feed them up. She watched him as he trudged on, an occasional tap from the stick in his left hand keeping the pigs in order as they grew in number on their way out of the village.

  By now Alys was wet through, so she might as well go to fetch the water before she went back inside to dry off. The buckets were heavy, and left her no hand free as she walked to the well; the hood started slipping off her head and she could feel the rain seeping through her wimple to soak her hair. The sky was grey and looked full; the rain was probably set in for the day, and it would never get fully light. She stepped in a puddle, drenching her shoe and the already heavy hem of her gown. The mud was particularly bad as she approached the well, as so many other feet used the same path, and she trod carefully to avoid falling and making a spectacle of herself.

  A gaggle of girls and married women were already there, gossiping cheerfully in a manner that tailed off when she reached them, turning into whispers and giggles behind their hands as they stared at her. Alys tried to ignore it, but couldn’t help comparing the friendly greetings she would have received back at home – back in Lincoln, where she used to live, she reminded herself – and it stung. When her turn came, she let down the pail and then concentrated as hard as she could on turning the wet, slippery handle to raise it. As she heaved the full container over the lip of the well to pour it into her own buckets it slipped, and for one moment she thought she was going to tip the whole lot over herself. The humiliation might even have been worse than the soaking, but fortunately she was saved from both by a pair of work-reddened, friendly hands that steadied the weight.

  They turned out to belong to Rosa, the only girl who had ever given her anything approaching a friendly look; she was Hal’s sister, though, so Alys wasn’t sure whether she really was welcoming or whether she merely felt obliged. ‘Don’t mind them,’ whispered Rosa under her breath, making sure nobody else could hear. ‘They’ll get used to you in time.’ And then she was gone, pulled away by the others, but Alys felt a little more cheerful as she made her laborious and muddy way back to the empty cottage.

  The rain was pelting down as Edwin made his way up the path to the castle. Unusually, it was rutted and full of holes; that did happen in this kind of weather, of course, but in normal times repairs were carried out swiftly. He passed through the main gate and into the outer ward, waving at the smith in his bright forge as he passed, but not stopping as he hurried up to the inner gatehouse, dripping all the way.

  The armoury was his first point of call in the inner ward, and he entered over a pile of assorted equipment that had been left lying. ‘Do you know where Sir Roger is?’

  One of the soldiers rolled his eyes – not something anyone would have dared when speaking of Sir Geoffrey – and replied, ‘Where do you think?’

  Edwin nodded and made his way to the keep, where, as he expected, he found Sir Roger on his knees in the chapel.

  Following the events of the campaign on the south coast in August, Edwin had not seen the knight for a couple of months, but he had arrived at Conisbrough in time to stand at Sir Geoffrey’s side during the wedding, and had then taken command of the castle garrison while Sir Geoffrey was absent. In theory this had been an excellent plan, but Edwin had been shocked and disturbed at the knight’s altered appearance and behaviour. He looked like he’d aged ten years, dark-circled eyes staring out from a haggard face; the spring had gone from his step and the joy from his demeanour. He’d always been devout, but now he seemed hardly ever to leave the chapel, spending so many hours on the stone floor in fervent prayer that Edwin wondered his knees could stand it.

  Edwin hesitated to disturb a man at his devotions, but after a short while he realised that Sir Roger was oblivious to his presence and would continue to be so unless he did something. He tried clearing his throat, which had no effect, so he stepped forward and laid a hand on the knight’s shoulder.

  One thing Sir Roger hadn’t lost was the reflexes of a trained warrior, and he shot round and seized Edwin’s wrist in an iron grip, twisting it painfully, before he noticed who it was. Then he dropped it and stood. ‘Sorry.’

  Edwin flexed his fingers. ‘I came to see if you had any orders for me today.’

  Sir Roger looked about him abstractedly, as if only now remembering where he was. ‘Orders? Oh, yes, orders. Some letters have arrived. I need to take out a patrol, so why don’t you read them while I’m gone? And then if you have time …’ he tailed off, waving his arm vaguely. ‘I’m sure you can find something to occupy you.’ He turned to make a final genuflection to the altar and was gone.

  He hadn’t said where the letters were to be found, but Edwin didn’t bother calling after him, guessing – correctly as it turned out – that they would be in the earl’s council chamber here in the keep. The room was cold and dismal, no fire in the hearth and just enough damp light drifting in through the one small window for Edwin to see his breath clouding. As he was on the earl’s business he took it upon himself to light a candle, although with no fire from which to take a spill he was forced to strike a spark himself, which took some time. Still, there weren’t all that many letters, and he wasn’t in a hurry. He kept his cloak on and tried to pull the sleeves of his tunic further over his cold hands, blowing on them before he broke the first seal.

  It was all the usual sort of routine correspondence, and – as far he could make out in the murk outside the window – it was not yet noon by the time he had finished. He stood, stamping his feet and glad to move, the sound echoing about him. It was still odd, being in the council chamber by himself. The first time he’d been left alone in here, shortly after his return from the south coast, he’d felt as though he was trespassing, and was ready to jump up with an explanation every time he heard a foot on the stair. But today he’d walked in as though he was born to it. Strange how so much could change in such a short while.

  But now was not the time to start thinking about everything again. He left the sorted correspondence ready for Sir Roger, blew out the candle with care and made his way down the dim and echoing spiral stairway, ignoring the ghosts that threatened to rise up if he would only let them.

  The inner ward was chaos these days – one of the reasons the earl had chosen to stay at one of his other residences for the autumn – as the masons were rebuilding the great hall in stone. The old wooden building that had stood for a hundred years, with its smo
ke-blackened roof beams, was just a memory; in its place bright new walls were rising. Good progress had been made, but as Edwin had soon after his return calculated the number of stones in each row, the number of rows needed to take the building to its full height, and the amount of time it had taken to get thus far, he thought that the earl’s estimate of it being ready by Christmas was overly optimistic. Besides, the masons would halt construction over the winter, spending their time carving and stacking new blocks ready for the spring but not laying them while the weather was cold. They were at work now, in an area of the ward between the hall and the great chamber; it was covered with a temporary wood-and-canvas roof that kept the rain off as they maintained a constant tap-tap-tapping with their hammers and chisels.

  To be more precise, most of them were at work; one of them was otherwise engaged being shouted at by Ivo. Edwin didn’t know many of the masons by name, but this was one he recognised – a small Frenchman with gold rings in his ears, the one who had been in the house with the master on the previous evening. Philippe was currently nowhere to be seen, so the poor fellow was enduring the tirade as best he could without responding. It was honestly the last thing Edwin wanted to get involved in just now, but he’d promised the reeve, so he made his way over.

  Of course, as soon as he got near them they both turned their attention to him and appealed for his intervention. Ivo was angry about some of the previous day’s work that had not been carried out according to his exact specifications. The mason went off into a rapid explanation that contained such a flood of technical vocabulary that Edwin couldn’t keep up, but he was willing to believe that the man knew what he was talking about. He tried to calm them both down without overtly taking sides, but was not entirely successful; Ivo strode off muttering dark threats.

  The mason swore under his breath – Edwin understood that – and raised his hammer with a clear desire to smash something. Fortunately, he retained sufficient wit not to bring it down on the almost-square block on the table in front of him, and instead thumped it into a pile of chippings, scattering them far and wide and breaking some into further pieces. Edwin was surprised at the violence of the reaction, and also at the man’s strength. He looked more closely: the mason might be small, but his forearms were the size of hams.

  For the want of anything else to say, he asked, ‘Why is it round?’

  The mason, calming as quickly as he had become enraged, was now making ‘tsk’ noises to himself and examining his hammer for damage. Unlike those used in the village or fields, its head was not square but rather a sort of tapered cylinder. ‘It makes it easier to use when you need to strike at different angles. Look.’ He picked up a chisel and demonstrated as he spoke, manoeuvring to chip more small pieces from the block to square it off. ‘And of course, you have it in your hand all day every day, so it needs to be comfortable or you can’t work.’

  Edwin nodded. He reached out to run a finger along the smooth edge of the stone block. The work was delicate and certainly a very different thing from, say, hammering in a fence post, for which a crude square hammer would be perfectly adequate.

  The mason looked at him properly. ‘You’re the man who tries to help master Philippe when that … when he’ – he gestured at Ivo’s back – ‘argues with him.’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘That’s more than most.’ He held out his hand. ‘Denis.’

  Edwin took it. ‘Edwin.’

  Denis made an effort to pronounce the unfamiliar combination of letters. ‘Edouin.’

  Edwin laughed. ‘It’s an old English name – you probably don’t hear it very often.’

  ‘But you are an important man in the earl’s service? You speak French? Was your father married to an Englishwoman, that you have this name?’

  ‘No. I mean yes, my mother is English, but my father was too. His name was Godric – you probably don’t hear that very often where you’re from, either.’

  ‘No, but it is easier to pronounce.’ A puzzled look came over his face. ‘But how did an Englishman rise so high in the service of the earl?’

  It struck Edwin that he wasn’t really sure of the answer to that himself. Luck? The will of God? He shrugged. ‘Great men choose their servants where they will.’

  Denis nodded. ‘This is true. Anyway, I am glad to know you, Edouin. I will look for you when I go down to the village later to work on monsieur the bailiff’s house.’

  ‘Good to know you too.’ Edwin left him to get back to his block of stone, wondering at his own lack of perceptiveness. The masons had been at Conisbrough for many months – years, even – and yet he couldn’t remember ever really speaking to any of them, except for the odd distant greeting. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to say which ones had been there all along and which had come and gone. But they were men like any other when you spoke to them.

  Dinner was being served in the inner ward, but it was a very brief affair. With the earl away, the garrison was much depleted, and some of those left had gone out on the day’s patrol with Sir Roger, so there weren’t many to feed. There was also, of course, no hall, so another temporary shelter had been rigged up in the lee of the keep, near to the kitchen, containing some of the displaced trestle tables and benches. It kept most of the rain off, but it provided little shelter from the wind that always whipped around up here, so the men huddled near braziers as they ate their hot pottage. Ivo sat alone at one end of a table; the selection of dishes in front of him indicated that he had at least managed not to antagonise the castle cook, a wise move under the circumstances.

  The afternoon was short at this time of year, and Edwin managed to find enough business to occupy him until it was time to go home. He was waved through the inner and outer gates by the porters and was halfway down the pockmarked path before he sensed – and heard – that something was wrong. Squealing pigs were careening everywhere through the streets and gardens, shouting villagers chasing after them. What …?

  Edwin broke into a jog, but as he reached the church he heard a different noise. He stopped and peered into the churchyard as he tried to make it out. The sound distilled itself into a sobbing, and Edwin moved towards it.

  Curled up in a corner against one of the walls was the swineherd. He had both hands pressed tightly over his ears and was rocking back and forth as he whimpered.

  Edwin knelt in front of him. ‘Gyrth?’

  The youth opened his eyes wide. ‘The blood. There’s blood everywhere, so much blood. I’ve seen it. I don’t like it. Make it stop!’

  Chapter Two

  Alys had been drawn out by the commotion and looked on in dismay at the pigs running wild through the village. She gathered that this wasn’t a planned occurrence; everyone else was darting around waving their arms and shouting as they chased down the animals in an attempt to catch their own. She stepped out of the garden to see if she could identify theirs, and was almost knocked off her feet by a large, squealing sow panicked by the noise and fuss.

  Eventually order was restored. Once most of the noise and panic was over, talk naturally turned to how this had happened, and Alys soon found her answer in the sight of Edwin walking along the street with a weeping Gyrth, talking quietly to him and patting the much larger youth on the shoulder as he did so. She assumed that Gyrth had somehow lost control of the pigs on his way back from the woods, and winced at the thought of the reception he would receive, but strangely the villagers restrained themselves to shakes of the head and tutting noises.

  Edwin delivered the swineherd to the man Alys recognised as his father, and then approached her. He took her hand. ‘Are you all right? You didn’t get trampled or hurt?’

  She was pleased at his consideration. ‘No, I’m fine, and the pigs are safe. But …?’ She indicated Gyrth.

  ‘Oh, of course, I forgot you haven’t been here at pig-slaughtering time before. It makes him upset. He’s with them all day every day of the year and thinks of them as his friends, and then most of them have to go to the knife in November
. The noise frightens him and the sight of blood makes him panic. We try to keep him away from most of it, but they haven’t been too careful the last couple of days and it’s been running down the street.’

  They watched as Gyrth was led away by his even burlier father, who had an arm about his son’s shoulder and was casting apologetic looks and words at everyone else as he went.

  Edwin continued. ‘It’s … well, you’ve seen what he’s like. He’s not all there, and it’s like he forgets that it happens. He’s been the swineherd for years but every November it’s the same, it’s a surprise and a shock to him.’ He shook his head. ‘The Lord must have made him that way for a reason, so we try to keep that in mind, and everyone just accepts that he goes mad at this time of year.’

  The following day was the day of the monthly manor court, so instead of heading out to work, the villagers made their way to the green. Thankfully it was not raining, but the ground was wet and a chill wind blustered around Alys as she stood with the other women to view the proceedings. She found herself between Edwin’s aunt, Cecily, and Rosa.

  In the centre of proceedings was a single chair that had been brought down from the castle. It was currently empty; Ivo would wait until everyone else was assembled before he made his own appearance. Near it was a table and stool, at which Father Ignatius, the priest, was sharpening a quill; to one side were a number of benches where the village jury would sit. The jury comprised every able-bodied and able-minded man and boy over the age of twelve, and Alys saw Rosa beam with pride as Hal took his place for the first time alongside his father and elder brother. Edwin was also there. Alys had asked him that morning about his role in the court. When his father had been the bailiff Edwin had been the one at the table writing the notes, but he was not going to position himself as Ivo’s assistant, so he deliberately took a seat on the bench at the back.