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

by Catherine Hanley

  He started swaying on his stool. The squire stepped forward and shook him, which didn’t help. He fended the fellow off.

  The knight spoke again. ‘All right, so that was before the wedding – the so-called wedding. What about afterwards? What happened then?’

  Walter thought hard again, and placed himself back in the chapel in the darkness of the night …

  The second part of the plan had not proceeded as well as the first.

  He’d thought that arranging the wedding would be the tricky part, but it had proved surprisingly simple, thanks in large part to the gullibility of the priest, who had accepted his explanation without a murmur. The clergy – or at least the real men of God, as opposed to those who joined the Church for political reasons – were always easy to fool. No, the problem was trying to persuade his new bride to keep their wedding a secret. Once the ceremony had been completed she’d wanted to announce their marriage in public, but Walter, with his superior intellect, could see that this would be a disaster. Why on earth should they risk the wrath of both of their brothers when they didn’t have to? Besides, he’d had his own particular reasons for not revealing the alliance, as he wanted to be certain of winning either way. If Warenne died childless he would make it known that he was married to the heiress, but if the earl should father a son and disinherit Isabelle it wouldn’t be in his best interests to have lumbered himself with such a wife, so he would simply not tell anyone about the match and start looking elsewhere. As an added security, of course, there was always the possibility that something would happen to his dear brother before little Stephen reached the age of majority, and who would be a better guardian for the fatherless boy than his own affectionate uncle?

  Yes, Walter had been very pleased with himself, but his fortune would only be made if he could persuade the silly woman not to go blabbering about the secret wedding. The priest wouldn’t talk: the promise of an annual donation to church funds as long as he remained silent had seen to that. He’d left the chapel, and Walter had been left alone with his new wife. Disentangling her amorous arms from around his neck, he’d braced himself and given her a kiss before insisting that she shouldn’t betray their secret – and reminded her that as his wife she was now bound to obey him. She’d agreed – one of the few joys of marriage, at least – and he’d sent her out to return to her bedchamber. He would follow on in a few moments: it was better that they should leave separately just in case either of them should be seen. He watched her go out of the door and turn to go down the stairs. Life was good.

  Sir Geoffrey pounced.

  ‘So, you were left alone in the chapel?’

  Walter realised the import of what he’d just said. But it was too late to take it back now.

  ‘I was, but all I did was sit there for a few moments before going down the stairs again and back to my chamber.’ He looked at them; they were both sceptical. He started to panic. ‘I swear it!’

  The knight was remorseless, looming over him. ‘But why should we believe you? You’ve already shown yourself capable of lying and deceiving. How do we know that you didn’t creep up the stairs, murder your brother, and then come back down? Who’s to tell?’

  Walter was terrified, his voice rising to a squeak. ‘But I didn’t! I just went down the stairs and back to my chamber, I swear it! I went back to bed and slept until it was full light. I didn’t kill Ralph, I didn’t!’ They were going to accuse him of murdering his brother. Dear God, he would lose his head. He panicked.

  ‘You don’t understand! I wanted to inherit an earldom, but it was to be Warenne’s earldom! His sister is his heir, so I had to marry her, but all I was thinking about was keeping it a secret so he didn’t find out! By the time the ceremony was finished I’d completely forgotten that Ralph was even in the keep – all I was concerned with was getting the woman, the priest and myself out of the chapel without anyone noticing. It was so important it took everything else out of my mind, so when that blasted man-at-arms said he’d seen me …’

  As soon as the words had left his mouth he knew he had made a terrible mistake. But it was too late.

  There was a huge silence.

  It was broken by the squire. ‘It was you!’

  Walter tried to shake his head, to renege on what he had just said, but the squire wouldn’t let him. ‘It was you! Edwin knew you had something to do with it and he was right! He’s been feeling guilty, as Berold came to him to say he knew something, and he didn’t find out what it was! God’s blood, but I’ll teach you a lesson …’ He strode forward.

  Walter flinched, convinced he was about to die, but he was saved by the intervention of the old knight, who grabbed the squire and pinioned his arms. He was saying something but Walter didn’t hear what it was. He was in a world of his own, remembering the horror of what he had done.

  He’d been leaving the keep after his interview with the earl, having been told about his brother’s death. The news had come as a shock, and the possibilities in his mind hadn’t yet had the chance to become more definite plans. So he was unprepared when he’d been accosted by the fellow, and had very little time to react. The man said he’d been on guard on the curtain wall during the night and had seen Walter making his way into the keep. No doubt he wanted to make something out of his knowledge. But the one thing which had been uppermost in Walter’s confused mind was that it was now more important than ever that the marriage be kept a secret – Ralph’s earldom was now a better wager than Warenne’s, so the wedding needed to be quietly forgotten.

  He’d told the man that they needed to find somewhere to talk and had led him to the stables. He didn’t know what he was going to do: as they spoke privately he agreed all sorts of things just to shut the man up – he would pay him, would give him anything he wanted. Then the man had turned to go, and in that instant Walter had perceived that they were alone, had taken the knife from his belt and had stabbed him in the back. He would never forget it, the feeling of the knife entering the body, the ghastly gurgling sound made by the man, the blood pouring out of the wound. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. Somebody would come in, and here he was standing over a dying man with a bloodied knife in his hand.

  Quickly he’d shoved it inside his tunic and wiped his hands on the straw as best he could, before walking – calmly, he hoped – out of the stable and back towards the guest chambers. Everyone had seemed to be looking at him. But miraculously there was no hue and cry, and he resisted the impulse to keep looking behind him. Once he’d reached his chamber he’d barred the door, torn off his tunic and shirt and hidden them in his baggage. When the fire was lit in the evening he would burn them. The knife was more of a challenge, but there was water in the room and he washed all the blood off the blade and off his hands before it could dry.

  He had no idea how he managed to sit through the dinner in the hall. He had almost no recollection of it at all: the only thing he could remember was that he’d thought he must be there in order to keep up appearances. He’d encouraged his neighbour to talk so that he wouldn’t have to. By this time the body had been discovered, but it was easy to feign indifference. After dinner he’d gone back to his chamber and barred the door, before being sick and sick again.

  He lay on the bed most of the afternoon, awaiting the knock at the door which would seal his fate, but none came. As the time went by he became aware of the possibility that he was going to get away with it all, and he started to contemplate a rich future. It was just his luck that as he left his quarters he should be waylaid by Isabelle and pulled into her chamber. The absolute last thing he needed at that moment was for her to make public their marriage. He’d wanted to encourage her again to keep it a secret, but his nerves and the effect of the long afternoon had got the better of him, and he’d let slip his true feelings. No doubt that was what had sent her running to the earl.

  But he’d been so close to getting away with it! And now here he was in this little room with two strong men who had no sympathy for him at all. H
e broke down and sobbed.

  Sir Geoffrey was having trouble pinning Robert’s arms. A few years ago it would have been easy, but now he was getting old and the squire was a grown man. He managed at last to wrestle him away from the wretch on the stool, and held him until they both stood panting and still.

  ‘For God’s sake, Robert, how do you think it will look for the earl if you beat or kill de Courteville’s brother. Think!’

  He needed to do some thinking himself. Walter had killed Berold, there was no doubt about that. But much as Sir Geoffrey would like to punish him for that, in terms of the political situation nobody would be interested in taking action against a nobleman who’d killed a common soldier. It would be unheard of, and the earl wouldn’t want to risk any credit he still had with the regent by doing such a thing. De Courteville murdered under the earl’s own roof, and then his brother put on trial for a crime which most would see as trivial? There was no possibility of bringing Walter to account for the killing, although to look at him now you wouldn’t think so.

  But the main question still needed answering – who had killed Ralph de Courteville? The sobbing wretch was repeating over and over that he hadn’t killed his brother, but how was Sir Geoffrey to know that this was the truth? He didn’t know what to do. The man was such a snivelling coward that he couldn’t bring himself to strike him again. If he was going to fight he wanted it to be against a real man, one worthy to be his opponent. The wreck before him was beneath his attention. And yet, how did he know whether the man was lying or not? He looked to be telling the truth, but what if he were merely acting a part? As he had done many times in his life, he cursed his own straightforwardness. Give him a horse and a sword, and he would deal with any enemy, but this … he wished Godric were here. Godric, with his intelligence and his years of experience in this sort of thing, would be able to tell him at once whether Walter was telling the truth or not. He sighed. Never again would his friend stride up to him with a smile, a quip, a light-hearted gesture. He looked again at Walter, still sunk in his own misery, and at Robert, waiting for him to act. If even Edwin were here, he would be able to come up with some clever question which would trap Walter into telling the truth. He was sure of it. The boy was so like his father it was almost frightening. But there was no point in continuing this – they would all just end up repeating themselves until somebody gave in, but that still might not lead them to the correct answer.

  Suddenly he knew what he would do next, and spoke quickly to Walter. ‘Get out.’

  Walter looked up at him, a glimmer of hope on his face.

  Sir Geoffrey spoke again. ‘Get out, you’re free to go from this room. For now. But do not attempt to leave the castle, or I will come after you and I will hunt you down.’

  Walter, wide-eyed and pale, stood up shakily and then fled the room. Sir Geoffrey turned to Robert.

  ‘I’m going to find Edwin and then talk to Godric. You find Martin, see if he’s discovered anything else, and bring him down to Godric’s cottage. You and I may be men of action, but we need to lay all this before the clever ones to see if they can make any sense of it.’

  Robert nodded wordlessly and left. Sir Geoffrey sat down heavily on his bed for a moment to consider the import of what Walter had said, but he could make little sense of it, so he rose again in order to find someone who could. Besides, he wanted to have a final chance to converse about distant memories, before the last companion of his youth was gone.

  He felt old.

  Chapter Twelve

  The burial had been awful. It wasn’t as if any burial was particularly enjoyable, but Edwin had felt that everyone was looking at him, blaming him in some way, although of course that was only right as he carried a terrible responsibility for the death. He couldn’t meet the eye of Berold’s father, now condemned to grow old with no son to support him in his dotage.

  It was as Edwin was trudging back up to the castle that he encountered Sir Geoffrey, who had clearly been watching for him. The knight looked grim, and steered Edwin into the steward’s office before saying anything, indicating with a movement of his head that William, who was puzzling over a list of something, should leave them alone. William took one look at the bleak expression on Sir Geoffrey’s face and departed in silence.

  They sat and Sir Geoffrey came straight to the point. ‘There is news, but you’re not going to like it.’

  Edwin readied himself and listened first with satisfaction, and then with growing horror followed by outrage as he heard the tale of the knight’s encounter with Walter.

  He could barely keep his seat. ‘But he is a murderer! How could you let him go?’ This was just too much, on top of everything else, and he felt himself growing livid as the shards of rage pierced him. His voice rose. ‘How could you!’

  Sir Geoffrey repeated himself, about the threat to the earl and his estates, and the paramount importance of keeping in the regent’s good graces, but Edwin was too far gone in indignation and fury to care.

  ‘And so Berold’s life counts for nothing? He was an innocent who was cut down in cold blood, and you’re telling me that the man who has confessed to killing him is to walk free simply because he’s a noble? And Berold’s death doesn’t matter?’ Edwin boiled with rage, jumping fully out of his seat this time.

  ‘Sit down!’

  The voice cracked like a whip, and belatedly Edwin realised to whom he was talking. His knees folded.

  Sir Geoffrey continued, harshly. ‘You’re right, his death doesn’t matter.’

  Edwin was so taken aback that he could say nothing.

  ‘It might sound harsh, and indeed it is, for he was a decent man, no worse than any other. But the earl, and I, and you for that matter, have to think of the situation outside of this village.’ He loomed over Edwin. ‘While it is regrettable that Berold is dead, and even more deplorable that that wretch should escape justice for it, Berold’s killing has no consequences outside of this village. Nobody else is going to die because of him. Nobody will lose lands. And yes, I’m sorry for his parents as I am for the families of any who lose loved ones, but that’s not the point. I’m not here to feel sorrow for them, and neither are you.’ He stepped back, waving his finger at Edwin. ‘The reality is that it’s more important to find who killed de Courteville. And that’s what we must concentrate on now, unless you want to run the risk of Conisbrough in flames.’

  Edwin was subdued by the rebuke. Rarely had he been on the receiving end of such a tongue-lashing from anyone, never mind the castellan, and he felt cowed. Indeed, it was only the hard experiences of the past few days and the reality of his situation which prevented him from curling up in shame on the floor. But Sir Geoffrey was right. He must try to think. There would be time to mourn and to examine his feelings once this was all over and the earl and his host had left.

  Think. Concentrate. ‘So Walter didn’t kill his brother?’ He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not, but he’d harboured some doubts about that as it hadn’t seemed logical.

  ‘It seems not. Or at least he says so. But I can’t tell whether he is lying or not. Strong I may be, but clever I’m not, and I don’t have the capacity to deal with such deviousness.’

  Edwin felt dejected. ‘I fear that I don’t either.’

  ‘Well, you need to learn, and there is one in the village who is the master, although he has but a short time to teach us.’

  Edwin gulped, but he stood in obedience and walked with the knight down to the village.

  As they neared the cottage door, Edwin called out to his mother that Sir Geoffrey was accompanying him, and she appeared at the door, smoothing down her gown and apron. A moment later the two men both entered the bedchamber, and the knight came forward to sit by the bed and take his old friend’s hand in both of his own.

  It was a strange gesture from such a warlike man, thought Edwin, but then Sir Geoffrey had surprised him on more than one occasion during the last few days. Despite the urgency of their quest, the knight firs
t spent some few moments speaking with his old friend. There was no sentimentality from Sir Geoffrey – he had seen too much death during his lifetime to pretend that father was anything other than hovering on the threshold of life. He didn’t seek to comfort the old man with platitudes, but instead reminisced about events of their younger days. Old? thought Edwin, reflecting, why, they’re the same age. Strange how the Lord can make one man seem much older than another, through illness or merely through a different way of living. He looked at them more closely as they spoke, realising that many years ago they must have been in a similar situation to himself and Robert, the one a simple village boy, albeit one who would wield some responsibility, and the other a squire destined to mix with the nobility of the kingdom.

  He continued to watch them, slowly coming into the knowledge that in this conversation between the old man and the dying one, there lay echoes of his own future. He’d always assumed that he and Robert would grow apart as the years went by, as the difference in their stations grew ever greater. They might have spent their boyhoods together, but the knight would soon go off to deal with other nobles, and would forget the village boy he’d known in childhood, while the village boy would in turn stay chained to his lot in life, and spend it in bitterness and jealousy of the other. But here in front of him was real affection between two men of very different station, who had known each other nigh on fifty years, more than a lifespan for most people.

  He looked again at the two lined faces, both grey-bearded but the one tanned from years in the sun, the other pale from the suffering of illness, and saw that the expressions mirrored one another. Companionship, friendship, trust. A total sense of knowing the other and his feelings. He gazed in wonder, and despite everything that was going on in his life, he felt at peace. And finally, the fear disappeared. Something moved inside of him, something fell into place, and he was able to realise without dread that his father had enjoyed a goodly span of years, but that that span was near its end. Father is content and so will I be, Edwin thought to himself.