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

by Catherine Hanley

  The knight grunted his agreement. ‘The shield?’

  ‘The guige is fine, Sir Geoffrey,’ Martin gestured at the long strap which would hold the shield around the earl’s neck when it wasn’t in use, ‘but one of the enarmes needs replacing.’ He had already removed the largest of the three loops through which the earl would put his arm when holding the shield, and had put the shield aside for the armourer’s attention.

  ‘Good.’

  Sir Geoffrey himself was now pausing awkwardly, and Martin looked at him in surprise, for it was rare indeed for the knight to be so discomfited. He was wondering how to react when a sudden scream pierced the sunlit morning, making his heart miss a beat. Before he could even think about reacting, Sir Geoffrey had drawn his sword; he jerked his head at the squires even as he turned to run. ‘Down in the outer ward. Come!’

  The cottage was dark after the brightness of the day, and Edwin had to blink and adjust his eyesight before he continued into the room. His mother came forward, clearly concerned, asking why he had been called away so suddenly by Robert that morning. What could he tell her that wouldn’t add to her worries? He decided on a partial truth.

  ‘Don’t fret, mother, it was just that Sir Geoffrey wanted to ask me to continue acting for father while he is ill. There are a few things I need to ask him about, though – is he awake?’

  Her reply was cut off by a voice from the bedchamber. ‘Of course I am awake – and do not speak of me as though I was …’ it was cut off by a fit of coughing. His mother looked worried again, but Edwin touched her arm to indicate that he would see to it, gritted his teeth and went through to the bedchamber.

  He was shocked at what he saw: his father was lying in the bed as he expected, but the coughs were racking his wasted body so much that they shook him from his head to his feet, and he was doubled over in pain. Edwin hastened to support him, putting one arm around his shoulders to hold him until the coughs subsided. The old man wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and Edwin was chilled to see smears of red on the cloth. Dear Lord.

  ‘Father …’

  His father held up one hand to forestall him, putting a finger to his lips and gasping as he fought for breath in order to speak. After a few moments he managed a hoarse whisper. ‘I have been trying to keep this from your mother, so as to lessen her worry, although she is bound to find out soon. But you will not tell her, do you understand?’ Edwin nodded as the hand on his arm gripped more tightly. The rasping continued. ‘I am not long for this world, but I will give her another few days of peace before she has to become a widow.’ The effort of speaking had left him weak again, and he fell back on to his pillow, exhausted, to close his eyes. Edwin did not try to comfort him – or himself – with false platitudes about recovering, for all men knew what it meant to cough blood. Time was running out. Suddenly he did not want to burden the sick man with the cares of the morning, so he sat in silence, helplessly holding his father’s hand and looking down at him. The fear became all-consuming again, gnawing, threatening to eat him from the inside out. But what could he do? He must fight to keep it down.

  His mother entered the room quietly and spoke to Edwin. ‘Can you stay for a while? I have to go to the mill to collect the flour, or we won’t have any bread tomorrow.’ Edwin looked at her, determined that she shouldn’t see his dread and unwilling to speak lest he disturb his father, who was breathing hoarsely. His mother had dark circles under her eyes and looked exhausted, and no wonder; he would like to help her, relieve some of the burden, but how could he explain that to the earl? That he couldn’t take on a task given to him by one of the most important men in the kingdom because he wanted to help his mother? It was impossible. Still, he could at least wait here now and let her get some air. He might be in fear, but she must be experiencing even worse. He would be strong.

  ‘Yes, I can stay,’ he replied, quietly. ‘There’s no need to hurry back – why don’t you tarry a while out of doors and get some air? I’ll stay here until you get back.’

  She gave him a wan smile and left, and he turned back to watch his father sleep. However, as soon as she had left the cottage, his father’s eyes opened. Amazing how they were still as bright and alert as ever, despite the failing body they served.

  ‘Has she gone?’ The voice was still whispered, forced.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. My dearest Anne. If she had thought me awake, she would not have left, and she needs to get out of the house.’

  Edwin almost smiled. Even now, they were both so busy thinking of each other that neither had time to spare for themselves. It had ever been that way.

  Father continued, each word a struggle. ‘Now, you must tell me of this morning. You may be able to fool your mother with this tale of Sir Geoffrey, but I know that the earl does not send his senior squire out on such a trivial errand. So speak.’

  It was a relief to be able to spill all the news of the morning, the strange events, the task laid upon him, the worries and feelings of inadequacy. Edwin hadn’t meant to reveal those, but once he started recounting the tale he couldn’t stop, and the words tumbled over each other as he explained his actions, and his failure to discover anything thus far.

  Eventually he stopped and looked down at his father, who was again lying with his eyes closed. Edwin at first thought that he had fallen into a slumber, and felt guilty for loading him with such cares, but as he made to get up from the side of the bed the old man spoke, and it was clear that he had heard and understood every word.

  ‘How was he killed?’

  Edwin was hesitant. ‘I – I’m not sure. There’s a scar … it looks as though his throat was cut.’

  ‘Have you found the weapon that did it?’

  ‘N-no.’ Oh dear, that was probably the first thing he should have looked for. He felt foolish.

  The questions went on, punctuated by rasping coughs and harsh breathing. Where was the earl’s own knife? Had he been armed himself? What was he doing at the top of the keep anyway? Who else could have gained access to it? Had anyone entered the inner ward after sundown?

  Grasping hold of something he knew, Edwin interrupted the flow. ‘No, I have asked the porter and he said there were no visitors.’ He felt pleased with himself – at least he’d got something right. But it seemed he had failed in this, too, for his sharp-witted father had perceived the error.

  ‘I did not ask you whether there were any visitors – I asked whether anyone had entered the castle. Old Warin might not have mentioned anyone to you if it were someone familiar to him.’

  Edwin was ashamed. Why hadn’t he thought of that? How was he ever to find the killer if he couldn’t even get the simple things right?

  His father took his hand. ‘Lord, but how young you are. What an age to have something like this thrust upon you, when a seasoned man would be having trouble. Still, you have taken it on, and now you must square your shoulders and carry the burden.’

  He coughed again, bringing up more blood, but he seemed determined to continue speaking through the pain. ‘All those years ago … I watched your first tottering steps … and now I wish more than anything that I could … that I could be at your side while you take your first … faltering paces into the world of manly responsibility. But it is … not to be.’

  This time he could hardly stop the coughing at all. Edwin was concerned that he might try to speak again, but he didn’t. He lay there, rasping but seeming to gain no air, struggling like a drowning man. As Edwin watched, his eyes closed and the sleep came over him again, the effort of so much talking clearly having worn him out. But just as Edwin thought about releasing the hand he held, it gripped him all the tighter and the eyes opened again.

  ‘You must act quickly. Make a plan and carry it out.’ He gasped again, seeking another breath. ‘Do not worry when you have to question somebody – you have the full authority of the earl behind you.’ Another breath. And another. ‘There is someone here, in the castle or the village, who has killed in cold blood, and
that sort will not hesitate to kill again.’ This time the exhaustion washed over him more fully, his voice fading. ‘Be careful, my son.’ One last effort. ‘Trust nobody …’

  Edwin looked down on his sleeping father, the words striking a chill into his heart. Trust nobody … he stared into space for a long moment, imagining the darkness creeping in from the corners. So vivid was his imagination that a giant shadow really did seem to fall over him, and he gasped and turned.

  It was Martin, who had entered so silently that Edwin hadn’t heard him. He was about to express relief when he noticed the grim expression on the other’s face.

  Martin got straight to the point. ‘You need to come back to the castle. There’s been another murder.’

  Chapter Six

  Edwin had a mass of questions in his head as he followed Martin up to the castle, but the squire was setting such a pace that he didn’t have time to ask any of them. He merely followed, losing his breath, until he was led around to the stable. Outside there was a press of curious grooms and a sobbing maidservant, one of the ones who dealt with the castle laundry.

  Martin elucidated. ‘She found the body.’

  Edwin was confused. ‘The maid? But what was she doing in the stable?’

  The girl looked at him, blushed furiously, and fled. The smirks of many of the grooms followed her. Edwin didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh.’ He tried to pull himself together and ask something sensible as they stepped inside. ‘A body? But how do you know it was murder?’

  Martin merely pointed him in the direction of one of the stalls, where Sir Geoffrey and Robert were looking down at a body. It was the knight who answered him. ‘Well, unless he managed to stab himself in the back …’

  Edwin moved into the entrance to the stall and looked down. A man-at-arms lay face down, a gaping wound in his back, blood everywhere. Oh dear Lord, that form looked familiar … ‘Berold?’ His voice was shaking.

  Sir Geoffrey nodded his assent.

  Edwin reeled. He had seen the man only an hour ago, when he’d seemed anxious about something. He’d wanted to tell Edwin something, perhaps something about the visiting earl’s death? And now … he looked at all the blood, oozing stickily out over the floor, already attracting the hordes of flies which were ever-present in the stable, and knew that he was about to lose the contents of his stomach.

  He continued retching long after there was nothing else to come up, but once the spasms became a little less frequent he was able to stand again.

  Sir Geoffrey was still looking at the body, and he spoke to Edwin with a rough sympathy, saying only that one had to get used to such things. He bent to touch the corpse. ‘Still soft, still warm. This didn’t happen long ago.’

  Edwin was aware of that, but he said nothing. What if he’d made Berold stay? What if he’d compelled him to say what was on his mind? Would he still be alive? Was he in part responsible for this death because he hadn’t been quick enough to see what was on Berold’s mind? He retreated into his own thoughts, hearing Sir Geoffrey talk to Robert, but not taking it in.

  ‘What do you think? Connected to the earl’s death? Or just some kind of fight? We must certainly find out who did this, but it must not get in the way of the main investigation.’

  In his head, Edwin was sure that the two deaths were connected, but for some reason he was unwilling to say anything until he was more sure. Somehow he felt that the knight would not want to know all the inner workings of his mind; he would merely want to be presented with the right culprit and a brief explanation. What Edwin really needed to do was think. There would be logic in this somewhere, but at the moment he didn’t know where. His head hurt and he needed some air.

  Sir Geoffrey was continuing to talk to Robert, speaking as though Edwin wasn’t there, which in some ways he supposed was true. He tried not to listen, tried to concentrate on the elusive thought which kept slipping out of reach, but the knight wasn’t adept at lowering his voice.

  ‘Just look at him: he’s a wreck already. I suppose it was only to be expected: he’s been dragged in front of the earl, confronted with the body of one of the most important men in the kingdom, and told to find the murderer. And now here’s another unexpected corpse, someone he knew – was Berold not a native of Conisbrough, so they might have grown up together? – who’s been struck down in his blood.’

  Robert murmured something, but Edwin didn’t hear what it was. Again, the knight’s voice was stronger. ‘It’s understandable that he should be bewildered, but he’s going to have to snap out of it quickly if he’s to achieve his goal before the earl needs to march. I hope to the Lord that I didn’t give the earl bad advice when I proposed Edwin as the man to take over.’

  This time Robert spoke more clearly. ‘Perhaps he just needs to get over the shock. He’s not used to this kind of thing.’

  Sir Geoffrey grunted. ‘Doubtless. He just needs some time and space to think, and then he’ll work this out.’ He took Edwin by the arm and started to steer him out of the building, talking all the while to Robert over his shoulder. ‘But this must be stopped before it happens again. Another life gone, probably needlessly. This is not nearly as important as the other death, and it’s probable they’re not connected, but a culprit still needs to be found. It will no doubt turn out to be one of the villagers or one of the other men-at-arms, but there will need to be a trial and a hanging. In the meantime this death is merely a nuisance.’

  He pushed Edwin into the bright afternoon and went back inside.

  Joanna wasn’t stupid. She’d awoken that morning and helped Isabelle to dress as usual, but her mistress had then wanted to walk all through the inner and outer wards, saying she wanted some exercise. But her barely-concealed excitement and pitiful excuses didn’t fool Joanna for a moment. Exercise indeed! When had Isabelle ever shown the slightest inclination to walk anywhere if she didn’t have to? Why, she would send a maid – or Joanna herself – to fetch her embroidery if it was at the other end of the room. No, this had something to do with her strange absence in the night.

  Joanna had awoken, aware that something wasn’t right, but unsure of what it might be. She’d looked blearily around before realising that she was in a small truckle bed in one of the guest chambers. Of course, that must the reason for the sense of unfamiliarity. The furniture was in a different place. No, there had been something else unusual … waking up properly, she’d realised that it was quiet. Too quiet: normally she slept and woke to the accompaniment of Isabelle’s snores, but she could hear nothing. Fearful lest something should have happened to her mistress while she slept, Joanna had crept closer to the bed, pulled the curtain aside and looked in. The bed had been empty. Joanna had been afraid; she sat back down, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and waited.

  When she finally heard her mistress return, she had feigned sleep so as not to be discovered. She had listened as the other got back into bed and lay awake for some time. Then Isabelle had finally dropped off to sleep and Joanna had followed suit, until the rays of dawn streaming into the chamber had awoken her and she had risen to start the preparations for her mistress’s day. But what had been going on?

  It was not until mid-morning that she’d heard the news regarding the visiting earl’s death, for by then the gossip was around most of the castle. It was shocking – not that she was exactly sorry, for the memory of his rough hands on her made her shudder, even in the bright light of day. The thought had stayed in her mind as she followed Isabelle back out of the keep and into the inner ward for yet another tour around it. Ahead of her she could see Martin, or at least his back, as he strode off in the company of Edwin, the bailiff’s son, dwarfing the shorter man as they walked deep in conversation. She wondered what they were talking about. It was sure to be the murder, for there could be no other topic of conversation that morning. The event was so shocking, so unexpected, that it overrode everything else. Shortly the news would spread throughout the kingdom, for the death of an earl would have echoes far beyond
the confines of Conisbrough. She was suddenly jealous of the men, and their ability to speak of these things, to hear the news and have the right to be told the facts. The Lord knew she would rather be discussing such weighty matters than traipsing around after Isabelle as she made another turn about the castle wards.

  By the time they sat down to dinner, she was convinced that Isabelle’s distraction had something to do with Walter de Courteville. She was staring at him, leaning towards him, pining after him, trying to catch his attention. But he was studiously ignoring her, speaking to the older knight, the friend of Sir Geoffrey’s whom she had seen yesterday evening. A thought struck Joanna, one so scandalous that she immediately sought to quell it. But it wouldn’t go away. The absence of Isabelle during the night. The insistence on walking around the castle this morning, probably looking for Walter. The fawning looks she was giving him. His disregard of her. Surely, surely, she hadn’t spent the night in his bed? It was appalling. Unthinkable. But possible?

  She was shaken out of her reverie by her neighbour, Sir Geoffrey, who noticed that her cup was empty, and gestured to Martin to fill it. The squire had been in his usual position behind the knight, but Joanna hadn’t noticed. As he bent over to reach her cup, she saw the purple swollen bruise on the side of his face, and her heart went out to him instantly. How he’d suffered in her defence! He’d braved the wrath of an earl for her, and she would be forever in his debt. Just as well the man was dead, or he would doubtless have found some way to exact revenge on a defenceless squire. She smiled at him as he filled her cup with wine, and he looked into her eyes in silent understanding.

  And now the meal was over. As the men departed she rose to leave, until she noticed that Isabelle hadn’t moved. Walter had risen and hurried away so early that it was bordering on discourtesy, without so much as a gesture towards her. Now she sat, alone at the high table, looking forlornly at his empty seat as the servants collected up the gravy-soaked trenchers to distribute later to the poor.