The Sins of the Father: A Medieval Mystery (A Mediaeval Mystery)

by Catherine Hanley

  Adam was in two minds. It was true, he’d hated and feared his master while he was alive, but surely the dead deserved some respect? This disdain before the man was even in his grave was somehow unfitting, and stealing his possessions was obscene. His father would be ashamed if he thought Adam hadn’t defended what was right. He took a deep breath and prepared to stand up for himself for the first time.

  He was no match for the ruthless David, of course, and he found himself on the floor within moments, the larger boy straddling him, fists hammering into Adam’s face as he sought in vain to raise his arms to defend himself. The pain was terrible, the beating going on and on, and the room was disappearing in a red haze before he finally realised that the weight on him was being lifted. He squinted up through half-closed eyes to see David standing over him, threateningly. Adam made to cover his face again, but the other turned swiftly and picked up the discarded purse, before turning back. He took out a coin and flung it down. It bounced off the floorboards before coming to rest next to Adam’s prone body.

  ‘Here. I won’t let it be said that I didn’t give you your share. You’ll never find another knight to serve anyway, for who would want a whining child who’s afraid of the dark?’ He paused, and then administered a vicious kick in the ribs which left Adam gasping, before stalking out of the room.

  Adam lay still for a long moment, waiting to see if he would die. When he didn’t, he waited again for the pain to subside so he could move. Eventually he managed to raise himself to his hands and knees, and tried to wipe some of the blood out of his eyes, but he only succeeded in smearing it everywhere. Whimpering, he looked around for a cloth, but he didn’t dare touch any of his master’s clothes which were scattered around the bedchamber. Instead he turned and crawled back to his blanket and rubbed it gingerly over his face until he could see. Tentatively he explored his face with his fingers. Was his nose broken? He thought not – he’d managed to turn his head from side to side to take most of the blows around his cheekbones and eyes. One eye was rapidly swelling and closing, but he still had some sight in the other, enough to see his way as he stood up, staggered, and limped across the room. On the table he found a half-finished cup of wine and drained it, wincing as the liquid burned the split in his lip.

  Feeling slightly more alive, he was able to make his way out of the room and the building, before sitting down on the outside flight of steps to consider his position. Whichever way he looked at it, it was bad. A squire whose knight died before he’d finished his training would be very lucky to find another, especially if that squire didn’t come from a powerful family. He supposed he could try and find service with his lord’s brother … it wasn’t ideal, but at least he might be able to retain his ambition of becoming a knight. But what if David decided to do the same thing? He was the senior, was bound to be considered more useful, and was by a long way the stronger and the better of the two in combat and sport. And anyway, did he really want to tie himself to another member of the de Courteville family? Perhaps he could go back to his father’s household – as a younger son there would be nothing for him to inherit, but at least he’d have a roof over his head, and he might be able to find work in due course as a retainer of his brother. But it wouldn’t be the same as being a knight …

  A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Earl William’s squire gazing down at him, the one who had shouted at him yesterday. Adam ducked and tried half-heartedly to hide his face so that the other would not see his injuries, but it was too late. The squire’s expression, however, registered only sympathy as he sat down.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Adam shrugged and said nothing. ‘Was it your lord’s other squire?’

  Adam remained silent and the other squire – was his name Robert? – sighed. ‘I see.’

  He put one hand under Adam’s chin and gently turned his face to the light so he could see the full extent of the damage. ‘Honestly, a fair beating, justly administered for a fault, is one thing, but this is another.’

  Adam winced at the touch of the other’s hand. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Well, let me see. One of your eyes is completely closed, and the other has blood flowing into it from this cut on your eyebrow. Another cut on one of your cheekbones is pouring blood, as is your nose, and the split lip doesn’t look too good, either. Yes, I’d say it was bad.’ He looked again. ‘Oh, and one ear is red and swollen, but that doesn’t look as fresh as your other wounds. And from the way you’re sitting and holding your side, there’s no doubt some damage there as well.’

  Adam listened to the enumeration and wondered if any of the injuries would cause him permanent damage. His eyes were the main thing: any other scars he could live with, but if he couldn’t see then he would never get another master.

  Robert hauled him to his feet, and he whimpered. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see someone who can help. Come.’

  He supported Adam as they turned to go towards the great hall. Once inside they went through the hall, where preparations for dinner were being made, through the service area and into some kind of office at the end. The man who was there turned to greet them, and Adam shrank back in fear as he saw the disfigured face. The man limped closer and loomed over them. Adam flinched, but Robert spoke briskly.

  ‘Master William, I believe we need your wife’s skills.’

  The man took one glance at Adam and nodded. ‘Aye, you may be right. Stay here and I’ll send someone to fetch her.’

  He left the room and Robert made Adam sit at the table. After they had sat in silence for a while a woman bustled in. Robert spoke in Adam’s ear. ‘Have no fear – she’s skilled with herbs and poultices, and won’t say anything to anyone.’

  On seeing Adam the woman exclaimed, and quickly started pulling items out of the scrip she was carrying, keeping up a comforting flow of talk as she did so, to keep his mind off the sting of his injuries.

  Adam winced in the anticipation of more pain as she approached him with the rag, but her fingers were gentle as she wiped the blood from his face. She hissed under her breath as she unearthed the damage which had been done, asked Robert sharply what had been going on, but he refused to elaborate, staying back from the table to allow her room to work. She spoke kind-heartedly to Adam, assuring him that he would mend soon enough, as she continued to wipe his face. Adam could not remember the last time somebody had been so tender with him, and he gave himself up gladly to her ministrations, allowing her to finish cleaning and dab a salve onto his wounds to stop the bleeding. It stung, but after what he had been through, it was heaven. When she’d finished, she gently pushed his hair back from his face in a gesture that reminded him of his mother, and he felt calm for the first time since he had woken up in the dark so many hours ago.

  Thinking about that made his mind start again on the endless cycle of the events of the morning, and he hastily cast his mind back further to try and cut off the remembrance. How eager he’d been yesterday when he arrived at Conisbrough, as he always was when visiting a new place. He’d been impressed by the sight of the bright white keep, dominating the surrounding landscape. He had unloaded his master’s belongings, or such of them as he would need for a couple of days’ stay; the rest were for the campaign and had stayed with the remainder of the baggage, down in the encampment outside the castle. Then there had been that incident with David and the girl, but he didn’t want to think of that. He’d eaten well at the evening meal, enjoying the meat pasties and marchpane which had been left over at the high table after the lords had finished eating. After dinner he had returned to the great chamber and started to prepare everything ready for his lord to retire for the night. Lord Ralph had come back in, furious, his tunic covered in wine. He had shouted …

  ‘The letter!’

  ‘What?’ He had spoken aloud, and he looked round to see everyone staring at him in surprise. He hastened to explain.

  ‘Last evening, after the meal –
my lord came back to his chamber and found a letter on his bed. He didn’t know who it was from.’

  Robert was suddenly all attention, moving towards him to question him keenly. Where had this letter been found? Who had delivered it? What did it say? This might be very important. Where was it now?

  Adam didn’t know the answers to any of these questions, and he sought to draw the memory from his mind. Where had Lord Ralph put the letter? Where might it be now? He forgot his pain, but remembered to thank the kindly woman for her aid. He hoped he would see her again before he left, and she echoed the sentiment, looking after the boys as they left the office and hurried through the hall and back outside.

  The letter was nowhere to be found. Robert and Adam had ransacked the whole of the great chamber and the kists of clothes and belongings in the bedchamber, but the letter remained stubbornly hidden. Adam asked himself over and over again where it might be, but all he could remember was that his lord had read the missive and then put it in the pouch at his belt. The pouch was here – it was among the first things they had found, still attached to the fine belt which he had worn to supper in the hall – but it was empty. Now they sat, surrounded by piles of belongings, at a complete loss.

  ‘I suppose someone has checked my lord’s … checked the body?’

  Robert nodded. ‘I carried him down from the roof with Martin, and he had no pouch at his belt. He was wearing plain clothes, the sort you might put on for travelling. Not the finery he wore at supper.’

  ‘No, he took that off when he returned to the chamber – the tunic was a new one, but he had spilt wine down the front so he took it off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They sat in silence until Robert rose with some reluctance. ‘Well, I’m not doing much good here – I should get back and see if my lord needs me for anything. If I get the chance, I’ll tell Edwin about the letter.’

  ‘Who’s Edwin?’

  ‘The bailiff. He’s under orders from the earl to find out who killed your master. I hope he’s having better luck than we are.’

  Edwin was having no luck. He and Martin had spoken to the day porter, the man whose task it was to look after the gate to the inner ward, but of course he’d been asleep during the previous night, so they’d had to wake the night porter, who wasn’t pleased to have been disturbed. He was in an ill temper as he went through the events of the evening. At nightfall he’d closed the huge wooden gates and barred them, and he hadn’t opened them until dawn. There was a small postern in one of the gates which would admit a single person, so Edwin was hopeful that someone might have entered that way; the porter, however, was adamant that there had been no visitors. And he would have known, as in order to admit them he would have had to leave the small cosy room in the gatehouse where he’d been warming his hands by the fire and venture out into the dark to unbar the door.

  Martin and Edwin left the gatehouse and walked back into the inner ward. Edwin was disconsolate. The first time he’d ever met the earl in the flesh, the first time an important task had been given to him, and he was going to fail in it. How on earth was he supposed to find out who had killed the visiting earl? Or why? There were so many things he didn’t know. He walked in grim silence, lengthening his stride to try and keep up with Martin.

  As they crossed the ward, they were waylaid by Berold. His face carried an expression of concern which was so unusual that Edwin stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Berold? What is it?’

  ‘I –’

  He paused, awkwardly.

  ‘What I mean is …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That is –’

  Edwin had never seen him like this. ‘Well spit it out then!’

  Berold hesitated, looked round him, and finally managed to get some words out. ‘You’re looking into this murder?’

  Edwin nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then there’s something I need to tell you.’

  Edwin’s heart was in his mouth. Was his luck about to change? But the revelation, if there was one, never came. Berold looked over Edwin’s shoulder and seemed to spy something behind him. Abruptly he stopped. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He turned and left at a run.

  Martin looked puzzled. ‘What was all that about?’

  Edwin shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’ He too was mystified. What had Berold been about to tell him? And more importantly, why had he stopped?

  He had no idea how to proceed. This was all going wrong, just because he didn’t know what to do. What he needed was more experience, but how was he going to get any if he didn’t succeed in this? Then it struck him that, of course, he did have an older, wiser head to make use of, if he could but force himself to go there once more. He would. He must.

  He stopped and turned back towards the gate, waving Martin to continue on his way as he made to accompany him.

  ‘You go round and try to find if there’s any other way to get into the inner ward. There shouldn’t be, obviously, but see if there’s the smallest way that anyone else could have got in last night.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to go and visit my father.’

  Martin had just finished his inspection of the inner ward when he heard Robert shouting to him.

  ‘Our lord has asked me to check and clean his armour. Come, spare a few moments to help me and you can tell me about what you’ve been doing.’

  Martin was unsure whether he should report straight back to Edwin, but he guessed that Edwin might want to spend a little more uninterrupted time with his father. Besides, he could see that Robert was itching to find out what had been discovered, so he agreed. It was unfair, after all, that the senior squire hadn’t been entrusted with the task, to say nothing of the fact that he was Edwin’s best friend and would clearly like to be helping him in his duty. Martin himself wasn’t sure whether he’d be of any real assistance in the investigation: he would probably just mess things up, and prove a hindrance rather than a help. Still, here was a physical task to which he was well accustomed, and perhaps if he spoke to Robert about the murder, he might be able to come up with some useful suggestions. His mood lightened.

  The two of them spread all the equipment out around them in the sunshine. The work ahead of them wasn’t too arduous – Robert, with his usual efficiency, checked the equipment every so often to make sure it wasn’t falling into disrepair – so there would be leisure for talking. As the two of them put all of the mail items into a barrel and rolled them round with vinegar and sand to remove any traces of rust, Martin told of the events of the morning so far, such as they were. Robert listened carefully, and made some choice comments about the behaviour of the dead earl’s brother while they laid all the mail out on cloths on the ground. He started meticulously to clean the remaining grains of sand off the hauberk, the great mail shirt which covered the earl’s body, his arms and hands, and his legs down to the knees, and to check it minutely for any links which might be missing or damaged. The smallest weakness in the hauberk might result in it tearing when struck by lance or sword, causing serious injury or even death to the earl, so the task was an important one. He agreed with Martin that the lack of information provided by the porter wasn’t an auspicious start, but added that he was sure that he and Edwin would soon find out more.

  ‘But what if –’ Martin started and then stopped again, afraid of what the reaction might be if he disclosed his fears. He desperately wanted to be a knight one day, and surely they didn’t admit to weakness? He put his head down and busied himself cleaning the chausses – mail leggings which would protect the earl from cuts or thrusts while he was on horseback.

  Robert seemed content to wait until he was ready to speak again. There was still plenty to do: around them lay several lances, the heads of which would need sharpening; the earl’s great helm, which would be polished until Martin could see his face in it; the shield with its blue and yellow chequered face to be cleaned, and the leather straps on the back to be tested, and then either oiled or replaced; and the earl’s sword and
dagger in their scabbards on a fine leather belt. They too would be sharpened and polished.

  As they worked, Martin decided that he couldn’t keep the words inside him any longer. Normally he preferred to keep his own counsel and not go jangling about his thoughts all the time like some people, but now it all came out in a rush: his fears about being able to help Edwin, his worries about the effects on the earl if they failed, and also his apprehension concerning the forthcoming campaign. He spilled it all out and then waited in some trepidation for the response. He couldn’t meet Robert’s eye.

  ‘Look at me.’

  Unwillingly, Martin obeyed, waiting for the censure. But he was surprised to see only sympathy. ‘Do you know, you’re so much bigger than me that I often forget that you’re younger. I’m nervous too, you know, so it must be just as bad for you.’ He shrugged. ‘There is not much I can say on the subject of the murder, and as for the campaign, well, I’ve never taken part in one either, or at least not a proper one.’

  Martin wasn’t fully reassured, but at least he wasn’t the only one who was scared.

  Robert was continuing, telling him not to belittle his own abilities, but he let most of it wash over him, his relief growing stronger. Then they fell quiet, a companionable silence they had often shared.

  They continued with their work. Martin had just finished polishing the earl’s helm and Robert was applying a final coat of oil to the sword, when Sir Geoffrey appeared. Robert made as if to rise, but the knight gestured for them both to continue with their task while he looked closely at the rest of the equipment, shooting off some brisk questions.

  ‘The hauberk?’

  ‘I can’t find a blemish in it, Sir Geoffrey, nor a loose rivet.’ Robert had inspected it in the tiniest detail, but all the links appeared to be intact and in good condition – perhaps not surprising, as the hauberk was such an expensive and valuable item that it was looked after very carefully.