by C. B. Hanley
‘No offence to my men, who do the best they can, but I’ll happily take service with you as a foot soldier, Sir Hugh, if this is the food on offer.’ He scooped up another mouthful.
‘Done, then,’ said Sir Hugh, cheerfully. ‘Bring some of that over for the rest of us, Alf, and make sure everyone gets his share.’
The man by the fire heaved himself up to a standing position with some difficulty and took up two bowls. As he came towards them he was in silhouette, the fire behind him, and Edwin could make out only a figure with a pronounced limp. Then, as he drew nearer, Edwin gaped, for the man had only one leg. Where his left shin and foot should have been, there was a wooden pole.
Alf had handed one bowl to Sir Hugh and he was standing patiently with the other held out towards Edwin. Edwin realised he was staring and shut his mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to ... what I mean is …’
‘Not to worry, my lord. It takes most men like that when they first see it.’
Edwin took his meal without thinking. ‘Oh, I’m not a … but how? I mean, what happened …?’
There were immediate groans of protest from around the fire, where the cook’s boy was distributing the pottage to the rest of the men. One of them, the captain of archers Edwin had seen by the side of the road, spoke up. ‘Oh Lord, never ask him that – not unless you’ve got the rest of the night to hear his tales of crusades to the east, anyway. Bigger hero than old King Richard, he was, if you believe it all.’
Alf opened his mouth to retort but Sir Hugh cut him off. ‘Now then, John, Alf, settle down and eat your supper while it’s hot. Plenty of time for tales later on.’
Edwin tucked into his meal, trying to identify the combination of flavours – how had the man produced something so delicious with only campaign rations? – as he looked about him. They were in a large but tight-knit circle, facing inwards as they ate, situated in a central part of the main camp; others were passing by constantly behind them, just out of the light of the fire, insubstantial shadows flickering past rather than real men.
Once all were served, Alf and his boy sat down to eat too, the cook gratified as he looked at the wolfing going on around him. The boy finished quickly and then went to hover in front of the captain of the archers. ‘Is it finished yet?’
John, as Sir Hugh had called him, folded a last piece of bread into his mouth and spoke through it. ‘Get away with you. You think I haven’t got more important things to do?’ He passed his empty bowl to the child and watched him turn away, disappointed, but as soon as his back was turned John reached behind him and pulled something out of a bag. Edwin handed over his own dish and watched with interest as John took out his knife and started whittling. It was too dark to see clearly, but whatever he was doing, he was paying great attention to it, holding it to catch the best of the light from the fire.
By the time the bowls were all collected, John had finished whatever he was doing to his satisfaction. He put the knife behind him, sticking it into the back of the log on which he was sitting as he admired his handiwork. ‘Dickon!’
The boy looked up from behind the towering collection of dishes he was now carrying. He stacked them by the cooking fire, where a butt of water stood ready, and made his way over. His face lit up as John held out the prize, and as the light flared Edwin could see that it was a carved wooden figure of a knight on horseback. Dickon took it and held it up. ‘Oh, John, it’s wonderful. Look, Father, look!’ He scampered over to Alf, and John tried unsuccessfully to keep his face stern.
Alf took the knight and turned it over in his hands before passing it back. ‘Very fine, John, very fine. You spoil the lad.’ He turned to the boy and pointed at the bowls. ‘Pots first – play afterwards.’ He took up a stick and used it to raise the handle of the metal cooking pot and remove it from the fire. ‘Leave that one until it’s cool, but get the rest done now.’
With extreme care, Dickon placed the knight down on the blanket on which he had been sitting, before sighing, putting on a canvas smock which was far too big for him, and rolling up his sleeves. Peter, who had in the shadows been putting away more food than ought to be possible for a child his size, joined him and passed a first bowl, though whether he was looking more at the water butt or at the carved knight was a moot point. John laughed. ‘Maybe I’d better start on another one.’ He moved to the nearby stack of firewood and started to root through it, looking for a suitable piece.
Edwin stretched his legs out comfortably as he listened to the two knights talking. Then his eye fell once more on John, who had re-seated himself and was feeling around behind him. ‘Has someone taken my knife?’ He made his way round to the back of the log, crouching and groping his way along it. ‘Come, now, which one of you has it?’
The other men made various negative noises, one or two shifting to see if they could see it. John’s voice became more irritated. ‘You know I use that knife all the time. It’s not as good as my tools at home, but it serves well and I want it back. If any of you has taken it in jest, let him return it now and I’ll say no more.’
By now several of his comrades were looking round, but Edwin thought they had little chance. John had been sitting at the outer edge of the circle, with strangers passing behind him constantly. Who was to say one of them hadn’t seen a handy-looking knife and decided to help himself to it? He was about to say something when his eye was caught by a new figure at the edge of the firelight, and he jumped to his feet as he recognised the earl.
‘My lord.’ Sir Hugh had seen him too and was also standing, gesturing to all to do the same. The earl moved towards them, Adam a pace behind. ‘Stay, stay, all of you. Sir Hugh, let us walk.’
The two of them made their way through the men and strolled off, speaking of the campaign. Seen from behind they were almost anonymous: two figures much of a height, wearing nondescript cloaks over the fine tunics that would mark them out from other men.
Some time passed, John still unable to find his knife and he and various companions spreading further out to look for it, inside and around the tents. Edwin had settled back and was just starting to wonder whether Sir Roger ever played chess. His eye fell on Alf, who was laboriously dragging a large object with a dome-shaped top nearer to the fire. What …? Oh yes, he could see it now – a small bread oven on a wheeled board. Of course, men needed bread every day and they couldn’t carry it all with them.
Alf called to Dickon, who was just wiping the last bowl. ‘Fetch the brushwood and then you can play, as long as you don’t stray too far.’ The boy brought him some ready-tied bundles of twigs, lit each one by dipping it in the cooking fire, and pushed them in the oven. The he picked up his precious knight, and with a look at Peter they were both off out of sight.
Edwin watched as Alf sealed the door of the oven and turned to pour flour and water into a shallow trough, along with a handful of leftover dough from the last batch. Just like his mother did at home: that was what you did to make bread that rose properly, although Edwin didn’t know why. Soon Alf had a dough and was kneading it with a rhythmic motion that made Edwin feel dozy as he watched. The cook left it to warm near the fire and shuffled in a sitting position over to the pot he’d left earlier, poking the remaining contents with a long spoon. ‘Good. Dickon? Oh, never mind …’
He began to haul himself to his feet – foot – and Edwin roused himself. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘My thanks, sir. The later in the day, the more trouble I have with my leg.’ He tapped the wood. ‘Would you kindly fetch me the crock of butter out of that cart?’ He pointed.
Edwin groped around in the back of the cart until his hand fell on cool pottery. The crock was bigger than the one his mother had at home, but similar: keeping it in shade or in a bucket of water kept the butter reasonably solid even on a warm day. He passed it to Alf. ‘Here. And it’s just Edwin, please.’
‘Edwin. Good old name. I’m Alfred myself, but I’ve always been Alf to my friends.’ He held out a floury hand and Edwin s
hook it. Then he dolloped some butter into the trough and poured more flour on it.
Edwin was curious. ‘Is that to make a different kind of bread?’
Alf shook his head without stopping his work. ‘No – pastry this time. Lard is better, but butter will do when there’s no lard to be had. First bake of the oven is the hottest, so that’s for the bread; but once you’ve taken that out it’s still warm and good for a few pies.’
‘Pies? With what?’
Alf nodded at the cooking pot. ‘Leftover pottage. Can’t waste it, but the pot has to get clean and go back in the cart for tomorrow’s march. If you leave the cold pottage in it all day and then heat it up again it can make men sick. And men get sick all too easily on campaign without adding to the danger.’ He picked up the ball of stuff he’d made and began to pull it into fist-sized pieces. ‘If you cook it in a pie now and then eat it in the morning, it doesn’t spoil.’
Edwin watched as he deftly made cup shapes and then started to ladle the thick and congealing pottage into them. Something struck him. ‘Doesn’t that mean you’re awake most of the night?’
‘Aye. But the men need their bread, and the lad and I get to sleep in the cart during the morning. It’s not so bad. And I’m lucky Sir Hugh will have me at all, being how I am.’
Edwin took the opportunity to ask, tentatively, about his leg, wondering if the subject might be a painful one. He needn’t have worried, though, for Alf was happy to tell what sounded like a wellworn tale about a battle in the East, and how he’d been lucky to survive, ‘what with having been treated by one of them heathen Saracens rather than a proper Frankish surgeon.’
They were interrupted by a commotion breaking out in a nearby part of the camp. Edwin and several others stood, trying to make out what was happening, taking a few steps in the direction of the hubbub, but it was by now fully dark and looking at their own fire had spoiled their night vision.
Edwin heard his name being called, and Adam panted into the circle of light. ‘Edwin. Sir Roger. Come quick.’
Edwin felt his heart thump, and Sir Roger, issuing from his tent, reached for his sword. ‘Adam, what is it? Are you hurt?’
Adam shook his head and held out something that glinted in the firelight. John pushed past the men crowding round and grabbed at Adam’s arm. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Is it yours?’ Edwin could see that Adam was holding up a knife.
‘Yes, it is, where did you get it?’
Adam looked from him to Edwin and back again. ‘You’d better come too, then. Because someone has just thrown it at the lord earl’s back.’
Chapter Four
Martin heard them before he saw them. Salisbury apparently did too, for both he and Philip went outside. Martin took his chance: when the group of shouting, gesticulating men burst into the pavilion from the darkness outside he stepped into the flurry, confident that nobody would know he’d been inside all the time.
Everyone was talking at once. He spotted Edwin and grabbed him. ‘What’s going on?’
Edwin looked grim. ‘Someone threw a knife at the earl.’
Martin gaped in horror. ‘What? Who? Is he …?’ But a quick glance assured him that his lord was fine.
‘It hit Sir Hugh, though it only grazed his arm and tore a hole in his sleeve.’ Edwin gestured to where the grizzled figure, sword drawn, was standing in the doorway and blocking anyone else’s entrance.
‘Then how do you know he was aiming at my lord earl?’
Edwin drew him to one side. ‘I saw them walking together. From the back you couldn’t tell which was which, especially in the dark. And I was worried about the fire, anyway. Surely this is someone realising his first attempt failed, and trying something more direct?’
Martin nodded. ‘I should have listened to you.’ He looked at Sir Roger, who had joined them. ‘We need to protect him while Edwin finds out what’s going on.’
‘Agreed. And he may need protecting in more ways than one.’ Sir Roger looked over to the centre of the group, where the earl was by now engaged in a shouting match with the Earl of Salisbury, jabbing a finger at him. ‘In a moment he is going to say something he will regret.’
Sir Roger went over to them and Martin heard his smooth, calm tones. Behind the milling men Martin caught sight of Philip’s smirking face as he stood by and watched the altercation. The old rage, like a nagging sore, came back. He looked down at Edwin. ‘Funny, isn’t it, that we should have had a journey free of incident all the way from Conisbrough, and all this only happens when they join us?’
He could see Edwin’s mind beginning to work, so, satisfied that he’d made his point, Martin elbowed his way through the press. The earl saw him. ‘Martin. Get all these people out of here.’ In his agitation he’d forgotten that the pavilion wasn’t his – Martin could hardly push the Earl of Salisbury and his household out. But he couldn’t disobey, either, so he contented himself with finding a few men who looked like they’d just tagged along for the excitement and bundling them out past Sir Hugh.
Eventually he, the earl, Adam, Edwin, Sir Roger and Sir Hugh were left with Salisbury and his household, and things calmed down a bit, although the pavilion’s reduced central space still felt crowded. The rushing around of bodies had made all the lamps and candles flicker, and they had not yet steadied themselves, so everything was jumping. Sir Hugh’s squire, Alan, belatedly arrived and started to look at his master’s arm, but even in the terrible light Martin could see that the scratch was just that, and it wasn’t bothering the old knight in the slightest.
Both earls had calmed themselves, but there was still something in the air, and it wasn’t just the sweat from too many bodies. Salisbury took charge, pointing at Adam. ‘You, boy. I heard you say that a man had claimed the knife as his?’
Adam looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, my lord, but —’
Salisbury waved him into silence. ‘Bring him in, we’ll hear what he has to say for himself and then hang him.’
Both Edwin and Sir Roger bit back protests as Sir Hugh gestured to Alan. The squire spoke to someone outside the pavilion, and soon a man was escorted in, his arms pinioned by two guards. He had a bruise on his face – unless it was just dirt, Martin wasn’t close enough to see – but was otherwise unharmed.
Salisbury addressed Adam again. ‘This is him?’
Adam looked around for help, but none was forthcoming. ‘Yes, my lord, but —’
He was cut off once more, this time by Salisbury cuffing him around the ear. ‘Don’t talk back to me, boy – just answer my question.’
‘How dare you!’
The retort had, thankfully, come from the lord earl, the one person in the pavilion who could address Salisbury in such a tone. ‘How dare you discipline one of my squires in my presence?’
‘I’ll dare what I like, cousin, in my own tent.’ They stood eye to eye, Salisbury marginally taller but the earl with his heavier muscles tensed. Lord, thought Martin, I’m sizing them up as though they’re going to fight. What will I do if they do?
Salisbury looked away first. ‘Never mind the squire. This man here threw his knife at your back – what are you going to do about it?’
In normal circumstances, Martin thought, the lord earl would not hesitate to have the man punished. But now he seemed to be more concerned with continuing to argue with his fellow nobleman. ‘Did he now?’ The earl ran his hand over his beard, considering. ‘Roger, Weaver.’ He turned and Martin saw them tense. ‘You both had something to say a moment ago. Say it now.’
They exchanged a glance and Martin saw Edwin indicate that the knight should speak. ‘By your leave, my lord. This man here was using the knife, which was stolen from him some time before it came near you. Edwin and I, and Sir Hugh, all heard him asking who had taken it and then looking for it.’ He glanced at Edwin, who spoke with some reluctance. Martin knew how much he hated being asked to speak in front of his betters.
‘I agree, my lord. And also …’ he tailed off, bu
t nobody stopped him so he continued, falling over his words in his haste to get them out. ‘When Adam came with the knife, John clearly said it was his, in public, before he knew what had been done with it. My lord, if he had thrown it at you he would never have done such a thing, surely?’
Over at the edge of the tent, Philip made a derisive noise that was just loud enough to be heard but subtle enough to be mistaken for clearing his throat. Salisbury snorted more openly. ‘You think so, do you? And what’s your word worth?’
Edwin had no reply to make, thankfully for his own safety, but the earl had had enough. ‘He’s my man, as are the knights Sir Roger and Sir Hugh, so if they all swear to the truth of this –’ he looked about to see them nodding – ‘then I will accept the man’s innocence. Let him go.’
The prisoner, looking hugely relieved, as well he might, left the pavilion as fast as he could, followed by the other soldiers. The two earls stared at each other for a long moment before – divine intervention, surely – a lantern spat and spluttered out next to them, causing them both to look round in surprise. The moment was broken and each retired, saying no more, to his sleeping place.
Martin jerked his head at Adam to tell him to accompany the earl, and then he joined Sir Hugh, Sir Roger, Edwin and Alan near the pavilion entrance.
Sir Hugh was the most senior, so Martin left it to him to say what they were all thinking. ‘We must stand guard.’
Sir Roger nodded. ‘Agreed. But where? Outside?’
Nobody wanted to raise out loud the idea that the danger might be inside the tent. Edwin looked like he wanted to say something, so Martin nudged him. ‘What?’
‘Sirs … maybe – I mean, you’ll know better than me – but —’
‘Spit it out, Edwin, we all know you.’ Sir Hugh wasn’t a man to waste words.
‘Perhaps, if you mounted a guard both outside the door here, and around the back of the pavilion? Don’t forget, there’s only a wall of canvas separating him from anyone wanting to get in. And perhaps Martin could sleep with his feet across the entrance to the sleeping area, so anyone trying to approach that way will trip and wake him up?’
