by C. B. Hanley
Philippe bowed his thanks, and then said something that definitely contained the word ‘Edwin’. Sir Roger replied, and the mason bowed again before leaving.
Sir Roger turned to Cecily. ‘Mistress, I am so sorry. Your husband was a fine man.’
The body was now out of the water and lying on its back. Alys had to avert her eyes from the poor face, bloated now as well as scarred, but Cecily knelt to push back the wet hair with a gentle hand.
Sir Roger now addressed Alys. ‘Please, take her home. I’ll find a man to go with you.’ He ran his eye over those of the castle garrison who were still unoccupied, but they were shoved to one side by the smith. ‘I’ll go, my lord, if you don’t mind your horseshoe waiting an hour.’
‘Good. She knows you, so that will be better than a stranger. And, of your goodness, ask your mother to attend to the laying out. I’ll see she’s paid a fee.’
Crispin inclined his head. ‘Such an old friend.’ He almost choked. ‘And I’ll see Mistress Cecily home safe.’ Alys was taken aback that such a huge man could display such emotion – his expression was agonised. Of course, he must have known William a long time.
Sir Roger turned to Alys again. ‘This is a mess,’ he admitted, with raw honesty. ‘We all know Edwin had nothing to do with it, but he’s still in danger. All we can do is pray that he can find out what happened before the sheriff gets here. I’ll go and talk to him now.’
Alys watched him go. She was in such a jumble of mixed emotions – William was dead, but she would soon see Edwin and he might yet be reprieved – that she hardly knew how to feel. But one thing was certain: she would do a lot more than pray in order to save her husband’s life.
Edwin’s eyes swam with tears as Sir Roger appeared in the open doorway. He should stand, but he couldn’t; his legs wouldn’t hold him. He was shaking all over. William. His uncle, who had been a permanent fixture in his life, was gone. No more would Edwin sit with him to help with the accounts, surrounded by the comforting aroma of spices; no more would they laugh around the fire during the winter evenings.
And he could have stopped it. If he’d fought harder to get out of the chamber last night; if he’d thought harder about what he was doing before he asked William to help. How in the Lord’s name was he going to face Cecily? And Mother and Sir Geoffrey, come to that, if he lived long enough to see them again.
‘You’ve heard the news, then.’ Sir Roger came towards him, hesitated a moment, and then sat next to him on the edge of the bed. He put one hand on Edwin’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Edwin nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and scrubbed the sleeve of his tunic across his eyes.
‘Did they also tell you that you’re free to leave the chamber, as long as Everard is with you, so you can find out what happened?’
Edwin nodded again. He tried to take a deep, calming breath but succeeded only in producing ragged gasps.
Then, rather to his surprise, Sir Roger’s own shoulders were heaving, and he dropped his head into his hands. ‘It’s all gone wrong, Edwin, so wrong!’ His voice was muffled. ‘After what happened before … and now my first command, and look what’s happened! Truly I’m being punished by God, and I don’t know how to make it right. Only you can help straighten the path.’
Edwin could perhaps have responded that Sir Roger wasn’t the one facing an imminent sentence of death, but that wasn’t fair. If Edwin were executed then Sir Roger would carry the crippling grief and guilt all his life, and to him even being dead would be better than that. This was a man in crisis, a man on the edge: among the other communications Edwin had received when the guard came to open his door was the news of Sir Roger’s threat to hang the whole jury. The world had gone mad; or, at least, Conisbrough had.
He needed to pull himself together. He would – he swore it in the Lord’s name – find out who had killed William. He’d wanted to find Ivo’s murderer, of course, but that was simply out of a desire to see justice done. But this? This was different.
Sir Roger had lifted his face; his chin was resting on his hands as he leaned forward, staring with a gaze that could pierce the wall and see a thousand miles.
Edwin cleared his throat. ‘I may question anyone that I like?’
Sir Roger’s mind was still far away. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I’d like to start with you.’
That surprised the knight enough to capture his attention. ‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well then. Go ahead.’
Edwin looked meaningfully at the open door; he couldn’t see anyone from where he was sitting, but there was no doubt someone within earshot.
Sir Roger got up to shut it and then turned, standing with his back to it to face Edwin in the sudden gloom. ‘Go on.’
‘Did you kill Ivo and William?’
‘Of course not! How could you –’
Edwin waved him into silence. ‘I didn’t think that you did, but I had to hear you say it out loud. So, here is my second question: where have you been riding off to on your own?’
Sir Roger’s face was a mask of indecision. ‘I can’t tell you. At least, not yet.’
‘If not now, then when?’
‘I can’t tell you that, either.’
Edwin wanted to shake him. Here he was, in danger of his life, and the one person in the castle he might have thought he could rely on was standing there being cryptic and unhelpful.
‘William is dead,’ he said, brutally. ‘Do you want me to be next?’
‘How can you possibly say that?’
‘Then tell me.’ This was as close to insubordination as Edwin had ever come to a man of rank, but the stakes were getting higher by the moment. ‘Why won’t you help me? Why can’t you just …?’ He made a helpless gesture, unsure of what he even wanted the knight to do. Make it all better? Make it all go away? Work a miracle?
Sir Roger sat back down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’ve failed here, Edwin. I’ve failed in my first command. The men don’t respect me – they don’t treat me the way they treat Sir Geoffrey.’ He waved away Edwin’s reply before he could even make it. ‘Oh, of course I couldn’t expect them to treat me exactly the same – I haven’t yet earned that level of respect. But the problem is, there are many men here who have known me since I was seven years old. They don’t see me as I am now – they see the little boy learning to ride and to fight, the one who got ducked in a rain barrel when he was cheeky to the senior squire.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘And the older ones tell the tales to the younger, and now nobody can see me for what I am today.’ His expression was almost begging. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘All right. I need you to keep the peace while I’m working. I’m going to upset some people, and everyone seems to be half-mad anyway. Men, patrols … whatever you need to do, but make sure there is no outbreak of violence.’
‘I can do that.’
‘And please don’t hang anyone or threaten them with it until I’ve found the culprit.’
Sir Roger looked a little ashamed. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Like you said – a kind of madness. You know I wouldn’t.’
Edwin thought for a moment. ‘I know you wouldn’t, but maybe others don’t. So don’t make a public announcement rescinding the threat just yet. It’s not that I want people to be in fear of their lives – the Lord knows I know what that feels like – but if it helps people to keep their heads down and stay out of danger, then so much the better.’
‘Very well. Now, as to you: as far as the law is concerned you’re still in custody, so don’t make any attempt to get away from Everard – keep him by your side. And you’ll have to come back here tonight, but as long as the daylight holds you may go about as you wish, and everyone knows that.’ He put his hand on the door latch. ‘Good luck.’ And he was gone.
Edwin had barely stood and reached for his cloak when Everard appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve got my orders, Edwin, and I assume you have yours.’
‘Find a murderer, within a day or a day and a half? When nobody has a clue what’s going on? What could be simpler?’ He fastened the clasp and walked out of the door.
Almost the first sight that met his eye was a puffy-faced Wulfric, standing dejectedly outside the chamber that William had been using as a temporary office. As he saw them approach he rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. ‘I seen them taking him to the church.’
Edwin put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
Edwin didn’t, either, but leaving the boy here to cry wasn’t going to help anyone. ‘Come with me for today, and I’ll find you something to do. Best to keep busy.’
The fresh early morning air, cold as it was, helped to waken his mind, and as they left the castle and headed for the village he was already running through in his head some of the things he would need to do. But first things first – the grief must be faced and his guilt acknowledged.
As they neared William and Cecily’s cottage he could see Crispin standing outside the door, glaring at any of the groups of gossiping onlookers who got too close or lingered too long. He shook his head as Edwin reached the door. ‘Sad business.’
Edwin sighed. ‘Yes. Sad – and evil, and avoidable. Cecily’s inside, I take it?’
‘Aye. And my mother, and your wife too.’ He stepped aside. After a moment’s hesitation he let Everard pass as well, but Wulfric took one look at the smith and decided to stay outside.
There was nobody in the cottage’s main space, but Edwin could hear sounds from the bedchamber. He stopped just inside the door, barely over the threshold, not wanting to intrude on the women. ‘Hello? It’s me, Edwin. May I come in?’
‘Edwin!’ Alys flew out of the chamber and across to him. ‘Sir Roger said he would – and I was – but Cecily is …’ She stopped and looked at Everard.
‘He has to stay with me, my love.’
Everard cleared his throat. ‘Can’t see there’s another way you could get out of the cottage from the chamber, so I’ll just stay here where I can watch both doors.’ He set himself into the universal, immovable, patient stance of one who had been a castle guard for more years than he cared to remember, and seemed almost to fade into the background.
Edwin allowed Alys to lead him to the bedchamber. Cecily was lying down, her face streaked, and Agnes was stroking her hair and speaking soothing words.
‘She’s drunk it all,’ Agnes said to Alys, ‘so she should sleep a while.’ She waved an empty cup at Edwin. ‘Just a draught to help her stay calm. Nasty shock, finding him like that.’
Edwin felt Alys’s hand squeeze his own, and he squeezed back. Then he knelt by the bed, trying to ignore the embarrassment of seeing his aunt with her hair loose. ‘Cecily?’
She wasn’t quite asleep yet. ‘Edwin?’ She turned her head. ‘Edwin, something terrible has …’
He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘I know. And I’m going to find out who did it, I promise.’
‘But his soul – so sudden, he wasn’t shriven.’
Dear Lord, Edwin hadn’t thought of that. ‘We’ll have Masses said for his soul, Cecily. Lots of Masses. And if I can, I’ll send word to Mother to come back as soon as she can.’
She murmured and nodded, her eyelids heavy, and then she drifted off.
‘I need to get to the church,’ said Agnes to Alys. ‘Can you stay with her?’
Alys looked at Edwin.
‘It’s the best thing you could do just now. Stay with her in case she wakes, and keep safe inside. I’m going to the church too, so I won’t be far away.’
‘All right.’ She looked wan as she subsided on to a low stool and took Cecily’s hand, and Edwin was torn. He should stay here with her, should comfort his wife and his aunt in their hour of need, but he had to go – his duty lay elsewhere.
He, Agnes and Everard all left the cottage together. ‘Any trouble?’ Edwin asked Crispin.
‘No. A few wanting to gawp, and some I think really sorry about William’s passing. Robin came by to pay his respects, him being a friend of William’s many years – real upset he was. And Young Robin says he can leave the other boys working and stand here to mind the door if I need to get back to the castle.’ He looked at the sun; it was about halfway between dawn and noon.
‘Good,’ said Edwin, although something was niggling at the back of his mind that he didn’t have time to explore. ‘I’ll be at the church if anyone needs me.’
‘All right.’ Crispin turned to the tiny wizened figure next to him. ‘And you take care, Mother.’
Agnes gave a toothless laugh. ‘Anyone tries to kill me, boy, they’ll get what’s coming to them.’
They set off on the short walk across to the church. Inside they found the body lying on a trestle table, the face covered, and Father Ignatius praying.
Edwin reached for the purse at his belt. ‘There’s not much in here, Father, as I don’t carry it around with me, but this should be enough for Masses until we bury him, and I’ll find more. He wasn’t shriven.’
The priest broke off long enough to reply. ‘I know. And I’m praying for his soul’s passage through purgatory. He was a good man and we’ll bury him with all the rites. Do you need me to wait, or shall I make the arrangements?’
Edwin crossed himself and gently removed the cloth. William’s swollen face bore witness to the manner of his death, and a glance at the rest of him was all Edwin needed to reassure himself that there was no blood. ‘I think we all know how he died, so there’s nothing to be gained by keeping him above ground.’ He cast an enquiring glance at Everard.
‘Sir Roger didn’t give any particular orders, so whatever you say.’ The sergeant looked at the body and sighed. ‘Played together when we were boys, so we did, and both got picked to go with the old earl to France. I was there when he got that.’ He pointed to the scar that disfigured William’s face even in death, and then placed a hand on his still, silent chest. ‘Rest easy, old friend.’
He and Edwin moved away to leave Father Ignatius to continue his prayer in peace; Agnes reappeared from the sacristy with a bowl of water and some rags. As soon as the priest finished and stood, she set to work.
Edwin took one last look at the body. ‘We have a lot of different cloth at home. I’m sure there’s some linen – Alys will know. So he’ll have a decent shroud.’
Agnes nodded but didn’t speak, fully engaged now in her sad but necessary task.
‘So, what do you want to do?’ Everard was asking.
Edwin thought for a moment, chewing his lip. ‘You probably don’t want to go traipsing all over the fields, and besides, we’ll waste half our time if we do that. I suggest we set up here and have people fetched to speak to us. We have Sir Roger’s word, so they can’t refuse. Besides,’ looking back at Agnes, ‘being in the presence of the dead might encourage them to speak the truth, finally.’
The church’s main door opened, and both of them turned towards the ray of light that spread across the floor.
It was Osmund, who looked disconcerted to see them. ‘Is the priest here?’
Edwin looked round. ‘In the sacristy, I think.’
Osmund came in, skirting a nervous path so he wasn’t too near either them or William’s body. ‘I just need a word with him.’
Edwin and Everard busied themselves moving the bench that normally stood against the side wall, and finding more trestles to set up, for Edwin wanted everything to look as formal as possible. In order to fetch the board to lay across the top he had to move nearer the entrance to the sacristy, and so he could not help hearing Osmund say, in an agonised tone, ‘But Father, I need to confess.’
Chapter Eleven
The morning passed. Cecily slept, and Alys was not disturbed. She sat quietly by the bed, watching, spinning, thinking.
The scenes of the morning ran through her mind, but she tried to put her feelings of horror to one side and concentrate on what she had actually seen. Anything she coul
d recall might be of use to Edwin. So, in the silence of the chamber, away from the world outside, she span and she sank into her thoughts.
Nobody had been near them on the path, and there was no question that they might have seen the culprit escaping, because William had been dead some time. Had he been killed before or after the castle gate was opened? That would either implicate or absolve those who lived inside the walls.
She cleared that from her mind. Edwin would think of that – it was obvious. What she needed to do was consider what she had witnessed, and what she could gather from the reactions of those who had been there. That was what Edwin could not do, for he had not seen.
Cecily had screamed. Those who were making their way to the fields had stopped in their tracks and turned. The nearest men had come running, with Hal’s father and brother first among them. They had simply stood, aghast. Then others on their way to the fields. After that, men from the castle, who had only had to run down the hill; then people from the village, and finally the masons, who had been drawn by the increasing noise but – unsurprisingly – didn’t want to get involved. They had hung back, in a little knot of themselves, until Sir Roger had spoken to the master mason.
She was getting ahead of herself. Sir Roger had arrived last. Crispin had been there somewhere, though she couldn’t think whether he’d come from the castle or the village. The castle, surely? Who from the village had been there? Robin the carpenter had pushed his way through the crowd, looking distraught; he had been a close friend of William’s. Some of his sons were with him, but not Young Robin – Alys would definitely have noticed him.
That was an interesting point. Who hadn’t been there? Who might have stayed away from the scene of his own crime?
She closed her eyes. That was a much more difficult question, especially given that she didn’t know everyone in the village. She tried to recall the faces around her, though she had been busy trying hopelessly to comfort Cecily. Aelfrith had not been there, but he wouldn’t be in Conisbrough at dawn anyway. Gyrth, the swineherd – Alys hadn’t seen him, and from what she knew of him, surely he would have been distressed enough at the scene to make his presence obvious. Father Ignatius had not arrived until later, and Agnes had only approached them as they were already on their way back down. But she was so old and moved so slowly that it would have been a surprise if she had arrived earlier.
