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

by Catherine Hanley

  ‘I was so stupid! So blind! All these years I’ve preened myself – I, the daughter of an earl! No man would be good enough for me, except one of the highest birth … fine ideals, until I fell in love, or so I believed.’ The voice rose to a wail. ‘Yet here I am, lying on the floor of a guest chamber, humbled and debased by a … a nobody. And his words will haunt me for-forever!’ The weeping overtook her again, and Joanna held her mistress in her arms and rocked her like a child.

  Finally Isabelle raised her head again and looked straight at Joanna. ‘But do you know what the worst thing is? There is not one man in the world who cares for me, not one whom I can trust.’

  Joanna looked steadily at her. A thought grew in her mind. She was about to say something which might well send Isabelle into hysterics again, this time directed at her. But she had to speak. ‘My lady, I think you’re wrong.’

  Isabelle stared at her for a long moment, but no words passed her lips. Joanna decided to plough on. ‘My lady, I believe there is one man in whom you could confide, one person to whom you could relate the matter, one person in whom you should have trusted all along.’

  Good Lord, Isabelle was actually listening to her. ‘And above all, my lady, one person who might be able to help you gain revenge.’

  Slowly, Isabelle stood. She wiped her face and straightened her wimple. There was no mirror in here, so Joanna wordlessly tucked the stray hairs back inside it and made her look respectable. Isabelle smoothed down the front of her gown, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  Sir Geoffrey peered into the fading light as he surveyed the rows of tents and equipment. Having put the precious scrolls away carefully, he was now down in the tilting yard, making sure that all was well with the encampment before night fell. He would have no disorderliness here. He spoke sharply to one man, telling him to pick his gear up from where it was scattered on the floor and stow it somewhere safely. He turned to Adam, who had been silently shadowing him, either hoping to be of help or through lack of anything else to do, and gave a short lecture on the importance of looking after one’s equipment while on campaign, concluding by pointing out that if a man’s life depended on his armour in a battle, it would do him no good suddenly to find a broken strap or a hole where the mail had been weakened by rust. Adam nodded – he was a good boy, it was a shame he had no master now, for he was eager and quick to learn. Sir Geoffrey had initially been bothered by his presence, as someone unknown, but he’d found a keen pair of ears, a sensible mind and a willingness to help out with any task which might be forthcoming; Adam had also asked one or two pertinent questions which betrayed an intelligence and interest which was sadly lacking in much of today’s youth. His prospects were bleak, though: Sir Geoffrey had no need for a squire – and besides, he was too old to be training one at his time of life – and the earl didn’t really require more than three. The loathsome Walter would probably not take him, but that was doubtless just as well for Adam. Still, something might be done – he resolved to himself to ask around and see if there were any knights in the earl’s retinue who might take the boy on. Certainly he would try to find someone who wouldn’t beat the lad to a pulp – he’d been having some trouble recently, judging by the sight of his battered face.

  They took one last turn around the encampment, watching as men made themselves comfortable around small fires. The homely smell of wood smoke drifted through the air, accompanied by the scent of the simmering pottage which was being cooked in many places. Some men were stirring the loaded pans; others warded off the boredom by oiling weapons, playing dice or simply chatting to each other. One man started to play on a small wooden flute, but the tune was too mournful for his companions, who urged him to find something more lively. He responded, and Sir Geoffrey and Adam left the encampment with the pungent aroma of the smoke in their nostrils and the sound of merry singing in their ears. If Sir Geoffrey knew that much of the cheerfulness was forced, an attempt to ward off the fear at the thought of the campaign ahead, he didn’t burden the boy with the knowledge. There would be time enough for him to learn. The sun was setting and as they walked through the darkened gatehouse the lad instinctively shrank nearer to him. Sir Geoffrey laid a companionable hand on his shoulder, and they strode up to the inner ward in silence. Once they were inside, Sir Geoffrey made his way to the keep to make his last report of the evening to the earl, Adam still trailing at his heels.

  The stairs in the keep seemed to get steeper every day, and Sir Geoffrey felt his knees complaining as he reached the first floor. He was glad to find the earl in his council chamber, for if he’d retired to his private quarters it would have meant another flight. Unusually, he was alone, with no squires or servants in attendance. Briefly Sir Geoffrey reported that all was well in the camp, although there was an inevitable uneasiness among de Courteville’s men. It hadn’t yet spilled over into anything more serious, but he had men watching who would let him know as soon as there was any trouble.

  The earl was commending him on his forethought when there was another knock at the door. Looking surprised, he noted that he wasn’t expecting any other visitors; he opened the door himself, to be greeted by the sight of his sister looking distraught. Sir Geoffrey didn’t have the energy to listen to another round of their bickering, but he wasn’t dismissed, so he settled back against the wall, trying to engage his mind anywhere except the chamber in front of him.

  Edwin had spent a fruitless hour looking for the orphan Peter. He’d just finished his rewritten deposition for the manor court when a message from Robert had reached him, saying that the boy had been seen with a large knife which might have been the missing one; since then he’d been searching everywhere. Amid the hustle and bustle of the castle, particularly given the frantic preparations for departure which were going on, one small boy could easily conceal himself. Edwin had been through the inner ward – not that Peter was likely to be there, unless he’d managed to slip past the guard – and down to the outer ward. Here of course it was even more crowded, a mass of humans and animals all spilling out of the booths and workshops which lined the outer wall, busy working, running, shouting or just milling around. Here was the business which kept the castle and its household running: here were the mews for the earl’s hawks and the doghouse where his hounds were kept; here were the carpenter, the cooper, the fletcher and the potter; here was where goods and livestock were delivered from the surrounding areas, and here was where the confined world of the castle met the wider world outside. Here also was the stench of man and beast, and Edwin wrinkled his nose as he passed a particularly noisome handcart, being pulled out of the doghouse by one of the boys who had the unenviable task of clearing up after the hounds. The boy didn’t have far to travel with his burden, though; as Edwin watched, he hauled the cart over to the edge of the moat and tipped its contents into the ditch, which stank so much anyway that the extra waste would make very little difference.

  The odours of all the various activities assailed Edwin’s nostrils as he walked through the ward, eyes sweeping every nook and cranny: the grease used on the creaking wheels of a cart, which was loaded with barrels of what smelled like salted herring; the more pleasant scent of wood, as the carpenter turned his lathe to work and the cooper shaved a barrel stave; and the sharp tang of hot metal as he neared the smithy – one of the only places where the stink of human sweat and waste was overpowered. Despite the pressing nature of his search, he stopped for a few moments, as he had done since he was a child, to watch Crispin the smith working his magic on a red-hot piece of metal, and received a nod in greeting. But the boy, the boy was nowhere. After he’d finished searching the ward, Edwin went out of the gate and tried the encampment, the village and the church. One woman said that she’d caught him trying to steal bread earlier that day, but nobody had set eyes on him since. Now it was getting dark. Frustrated, Edwin turned to go back up to the castle. As he neared the gate he had to move to the side of the road as a cart loaded with barrels was passing through the
other way. Provisions for the campaign, no doubt, being prepared in advance. Not that it was much in advance, for the earl was to leave on the day after the morrow. This reminded him again how little time he had to complete his task, and how little he still knew.

  Watching as the cart moved slowly past, he was struck by an idea. If I were a hungry boy, he thought to himself, where would I be? Annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it earlier, he walked in through the gate and around to the open space where other carts were being loaded with food. The earl’s marshal, the man in charge of the household’s travel arrangements, was fussing and flustered as he consulted lists and pointed the carriers in the right direction, and there seemed to be much confusion. Edwin looked around carefully: sure enough, a small figure lurked in the narrow space between two of the buildings set against the outer wall, watching avidly. No doubt he was hoping that something would fall, which might mean it would be discarded or overlooked. Aware of the boy’s speed despite his frail-looking frame, Edwin moved surreptitiously along the side of the building. He had no desire to lose his quarry again.

  ‘Got you!’ He jumped in front of the narrow opening, spreading his arms wide to prevent any escape. Peter tried his best, but there was no way out behind him; he lunged forward, but Edwin caught him and lifted him bodily off the floor. He weighed virtually nothing, but struggled as best he could, and shouted.

  Edwin looked around him, embarrassed at the noise. However, after a quick glance the men who were working turned away. Nobody had any interest in a ragged boy who had been apprehended by a respectable-looking man. Clearly he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t and was about to get his punishment; he was poor, unimportant, and invisible.

  Edwin held Peter until his struggles subsided, trying to make plain that he only wanted to talk and didn’t intend any violence. He started to carry his prize back down the alleyway, but the confined space held the Lord knew what, and it stank. Instead, he stepped out into the twilight and wondered where would be a good place to go. He headed for the stables.

  He was just inside the door when he remembered why he’d been in the stables earlier, and he nearly turned and left again. But there was nowhere else where he could have a quiet word with the boy, so he made his way in. He realised with some irony that similar thoughts might have been going through the head of the murderer earlier, and decided to store up that theory for later. In the meantime he needed some more information.

  Inside it was relatively peaceful: sounds came from one or two of the stalls, indicating that a couple of grooms were checking hooves and currying steeds, but otherwise it was quiet. Edwin considered the hayloft above, realised that he was unlikely to make it up the ladder without either letting Peter go or causing both of them some injury, and instead moved into an empty stall and thankfully sat down on a pile of straw. He loosened his grip on his captive slightly, keeping hold of a fistful of the ragged tunic, and inspected the boy before him.

  Lord, but he was dirty. Edwin was not fastidious himself, but never in all his life had he been as filthy as that. The boy stank to high heaven and Edwin’s hand felt soiled and greasy just from the contact with his clothing. Underneath the matted hair and the layers of dirt a small face peered out, thin and sharp. The cheeks were pinched and the eyes hollow and streaming with tears. The boy wiped his sleeve across his face – it was difficult to see what might be served by the gesture, for each was as grimy as the other – and sniffed. The tears continued and his small shoulders shook.

  Edwin was at a loss as to how to begin. He looked at the abject creature in front of him and felt nothing but pity, but he had his duty.

  ‘Peter.’

  No effect. He tried again.

  ‘Peter, I need to talk to you about the knife you had yesterday. Where did you get it from?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you steal it from the kitchen?’

  The sobs continued unabated. Edwin didn’t know what to do, but the pressure of his situation was starting to tell on him. He must get some sort of information here. Hating himself, he took the boy by both shoulders and shook him hard.

  ‘Listen to me! You must talk to me or you will be in more trouble. Did you steal the knife from the kitchen?’

  If anything, the sobs only increased, and Peter sank further into his misery. Edwin raised his hand to strike the child, but then thought about what he was doing, and loathed himself. Here was the lowest of the low, the most unfortunate creature he’d ever come across; orphaned, friendless, starving, petrified. And he had been about to hit him in order to make him speak. Was this how his life as bailiff was going to be? Bullying the weak? He relented and lowered his hand. But he still needed some answers. He had one more idea.

  ‘Peter, listen to me – if you speak to me and tell me what I want to know, I’ll see that you get something to eat.’ A pause in the shivering and crying. ‘And maybe even a new tunic, something warm to wear.’

  How in the Lord’s name was he going to do that? The food, maybe, for he could rely upon his mother if needs be. But the clothing? He himself had only one spare tunic, and it would swamp the boy for certain. But maybe he could use some of the money he’d saved to buy something off one of the women in the village, one whose son had outgrown something. Maybe somebody would be glad of a coin in place of an old tunic which was too small.

  His new approach was working. The sobs stopped and an incredulous face looked at him through the tears. ‘Really?’

  Edwin had always been told that he had a soft heart, but looking at the hope on the face in front of him, he knew he would do whatever it took. ‘Yes, really. But first, speak. Did you steal the knife?’

  ‘Nobody was using it.’

  That was a start. ‘So you did have it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you get it from the kitchen?’

  A nod.

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘I wanted to sell it. But nobody would buy it. Then I wanted to use it to kill something to eat, but I couldn’t catch nothing. Then the squire and the knight saw me with it, and I ran. I dropped it, and now it’s gone.’

  Such a long speech, but still no joy for Edwin. If this knife was the murder weapon, then Peter certainly wasn’t the murderer, nor would he be able to shed any light on who was. A thought struck him.

  ‘Which squire? Which knight?’

  Peter didn’t know their names, the great ones who moved at the edge of his world, far above him. But for the promise of food and clothes, he would try. ‘The earl’s squire. Not the tall one, the other one. And the knight with the shining face.’

  Well, the squire had to be Robert, surely, which fitted with his message, but the knight … ‘What do you mean, shining face?’

  Peter didn’t have the words to express the picture in his mind. ‘Just … shining. Like a light.’ Edwin still looked bemused, and Peter could see his meal slipping away. He tried again, and was rewarded with a flash of inspiration. ‘He used to be here. Another squire.’

  There could only be one knight who fitted that description, but how might he be involved with this? Edwin recalled that he had seen Sir Roger praying over the body. But what possible connection could he have to all this? He could never have set eyes on the dead earl before this week, so what cause would he have to kill him? Still, this was new information. Edwin ordered his thoughts. He must first find Robert, to see what he might have discovered since this morning, and then he would have to talk with Sir Roger again.

  Peter was staring at him in hope. No, before all the other tasks, he must keep his promise here. First, the food. He rose, with the boy looking at him expectantly. ‘Stay here, Peter, and I’ll bring you some food.’ Peter’s face fell – clearly he had no expectation that anything would be forthcoming. As Edwin started to move away, the boy desperately tried one last gamble, perhaps thinking that more information might mean more chance of food. He clutched at Edwin’s sleeve, his small hand gripping tightly.

  ‘I saw th
em.’

  Edwin stopped. ‘Saw who?’

  ‘By the keep. In the night. When the man was killed.’

  Edwin sat down again, thumping to the floor, unable to believe his luck. He looked closely at the boy. ‘Are you lying to me? I can assure you, if you are, you will get nothing.’

  Peter was eager now, sensing that he had power. He shook his head. ‘Not lying.’

  ‘All right then, answer my questions. What were you doing in the inner ward, up by the keep?’

  The boy looked uncomfortable. ‘Looking for somewhere to sleep. There aren’t many places here, because people see me and tell me to go away. So I went to see if there was a place up there. There was a little hole in the wall. I climbed in.’

  ‘Did the guards not see you?’

  ‘No. I hid. I saw one soldier but he didn’t see me.’

  ‘Do you know which soldier? His name?’

  A shake of the head. But surely it had been Berold?

  ‘Where were you hiding?’

  ‘Under the steps to the keep. Out of the wind.’

  Edwin grew more excited. If this was true, Peter could have seen who went into the keep. But wait, what had he said? Not ‘he’, but ‘them’.

  ‘How many people did you see? I mean, after everyone had gone to bed.’

  Peter looked thoughtful for a moment and then, with concentration, he held up four fingers.

  ‘Four? You saw four people going into the keep?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Were they all together? Who were they?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Not together. None of them. They went in, but they didn’t all come out. All except the dead man.’

  Edwin was having some difficulty with the way in which Peter was expressing himself. Why could he not articulate clearly? With sudden insight, he realised that it was probably because nobody ever spoke to him, or at least didn’t speak to him properly, so he never had cause to practise his speech. His heart went out again to the waif, and he kept his patience as he tried to question him again.