by C. B. Hanley
‘But —’
The man put his face close to Edwin’s. Too close: Edwin could feel the stubble brushing his own skin. ‘Anyone might recognise him. You’ve seen him about the camp with the other lords, no doubt. Now, I tell you, be off before you get into trouble.’
He was holding a short spear, and Edwin noticed that his grip on it had become less casual. Several of his fellows were taking an interest in the exchange and beginning to drift in their direction. It was time to go.
‘What’s all this?’
The altercation had drawn the attention of John Marshal himself, and he was approaching with a couple of men at his back. Edwin straightened.
‘Begging your pardon, my lord, it’s this man here. Wants us to let him in and says he’s one of your men.’
‘No, I didn’t —’
He had no chance to continue. John Marshal shot him no more than a cursory glance before giving a dismissive wave and turning away again. ‘No. Don’t know who he is, but not one of mine.’
Edwin watched his departing back, humiliated. It was not much more than three months since he had ridden to Lincoln with John Marshal, and the two of them had embarked on the extremely dangerous escapade of getting into the besieged castle at night under the noses of the enemy. Edwin had succeeded and then made it back to the main army with information that had materially affected the outcome of the battle. Fine, in the noble world that might not exactly make him a comrade, but after such a heightened shared experience he had expected that John Marshal might at least recognise him, might remember who he was. But he had looked right through Edwin as though he were no more important than a piece of furniture.
The sergeant gave him a shove. ‘Claiming to be one of his men, indeed. Don’t you know who he is? Not just the regent’s nephew, but the man who saved us all at Lincoln. He got into the castle and back again, a hero. I’ve heard his men talk about it round the fire often enough.’
Edwin let himself be propelled away by the hand between his shoulder blades. Dazed, misery complete, he made his way back to Sir Hugh’s camp and sat down heavily. He was alone: Alf was snoring in the back of one of the carts, Dickon presumably asleep on the other side of him, hidden by his father’s bulk, and the others had all gone.
He was nobody. In the eyes of his fellows he was an outsider, a man trying to get above himself; he wanted to read and to play chess when others were content with dice and drinking. But in the eyes of the nobles he was a nobody, a tool to be used and then discarded at will. They didn’t see him as a person. How had he thought that he might have any worth? How had he possibly come to the conclusion that he would be allowed into the inner sanctum of the army, with those who were far above him? He was a joke.
Edwin didn’t know how long he sat without moving, but eventually he realised he had to do something. He was a common soldier now, an archer, so perhaps he should start behaving like one. But the others were long gone, and besides, he still didn’t really want to join them. If there was one person in the world who believed in him, it was Alys, and he wouldn’t dishonour her. But maybe he would go into the town anyway and have a look around. There would be shops, wouldn’t there? Like the fair at Conisbrough but bigger. He had some money; perhaps he could buy something to take back to her once all this was over. Because he was going back to her no matter what, no matter whether the earl forgave him, no matter what his status was by then, and no matter if he had to walk for a month to get home.
He stood up, brushed down his tunic and hose, checked his purse, and set off for the town. The camp could manage without him for a while.
Martin didn’t think he’d had a moment to himself since they’d arrived. First there was the pavilion and the camp to set up, then there had been other lords to greet and serve while they spoke with the earl long into the night, and he’d been run off his feet since not long after dawn this morning. He had just sent a man to fetch Sir Hugh and Sir Roger, and was himself on the way to tell Humphrey that the earl was to attend the regent’s council all morning, so his dinner would need to be pushed back until around noon.
The kitchen area, despite being busy, exuded an air of calm and orderliness. Humphrey was in the middle of everything, directing matters, keeping a sharp eye on the cooks and their pots, and sending various milling boys back and forth on errands. He greeted Martin and didn’t seem too overwhelmed by the message – a very different reception from the one Martin suspected he’d have got from the previous marshal, and a welcome relief.
‘That will give me a chance to prepare something a little more elaborate than we’ve managed the last few days. Hmm, let me see, we have a couple of grouse hanging that should be ready …’
Martin let him ramble on for a while, glad of a few moments’ rest, but was startled by a piercing shriek from nearby. Instinctively he reached for his sword – he had kept it belted on at all times during the last few days, just in case – but Humphrey shook his head. ‘It’s only Rob. He’s still in a bad way.’
Martin judged that the unfortunate man was now far enough from the pavilion for the noise not to disturb the earl, but it must be unpleasant for everyone else around. He ducked under the canvas cover to see Brother William kneeling beside a prostrate figure. The sick man was rigid on his pallet, bathed in sweat and alternating between cries, groans and pleas to be put out of his misery.
Brother William said ‘Amen’, made the sign of the cross, and rose. ‘I’ll be back later, whenever I can get away. Trust in the Lord until then.’
Martin followed him back through the kitchen area towards the pavilion. ‘How is he?’
The monk shook his head. ‘I’ve seen something like this once before. The pain, the fever, and the hard, unyielding stomach.’
‘Can anything be done for him?’ Martin felt his luck at not having eaten too much on that fateful night. ‘Can I help?’
‘You can pray for a swift end.’
It could have been him. It could have been the lord earl. It could have been Adam. Martin wanted to hit something. Specifically, he wanted to hit whoever had tried to poison them all, but to be honest he had so much bottled up inside him that battering anyone – anything – would do.
As if in answer to his prayers, he noticed a couple of squires in full training gear passing by. As his gaze followed them he spotted more, heading in the same direction.
‘You go back. I’ll only be a few moments.’ He parted from Brother William and followed the boys. Sure enough, they were on their way to spar: a training area had been fenced off within the camp. There wasn’t enough space for riding, but there were a number of boys and young men engaged in foot combat.
Martin didn’t stay to watch – he needed to get back to tell his lord of this and to beg leave to go and join in. The earl wouldn’t need anyone to attend him while he was in council, would he? They could all go.
He lengthened his stride and was back at the pavilion in short order, to find the earl inside with Sir Hugh and Sir Roger. Martin reported on the training area and was pleased to see the earl nod.
‘Adam, find some gear and take Hugh there. Start him off with a few basics so he knows one end of a sword from the other by the time he gets back to Geoffrey.’
Adam did as he was bid, and Martin was halfway to following when the earl spoke again. ‘Not you.’
Martin pulled back in surprise. ‘My lord?’
The earl was looking him up and down. ‘You’re the senior. You need to start learning, so you can come to the council. You can stand with Sir Hugh and Sir Roger, and later on you can tell me what you’ve picked up. I don’t have … well, anyway. Make yourself ready.’
Martin knew better than to argue, but his disappointment was extreme. Finally, to have the prospect of action and exercise dangled in front of him, and he was going to have to spend the morning in a stuffy tent listening to men talk politics? And he knew what his lord had been about to say. I don’t have Edwin any more. As if Martin could possibly pick up on even half wha
t Edwin would have done. Edwin could listen to a conversation about beans and then tell you ten important things about the speaker that nobody else had noticed.
But there was nothing for it. He checked that Adam and Hugh had everything they needed, tried to mask his jealousy, made sure he had nothing spilled down the front of his tunic, and followed the earl and the knights out of the pavilion.
They arrived in the regent’s command tent a little ahead of everyone else, and even the lord earl was forced to wait while the regent finished the conversation he was having with another.
‘Sheffield? But didn’t he –?’
‘Yes, my lord. But the boy has now died too, so the uncle is seeking advancement to the earldom.’
Martin watched as the elderly man’s face wrinkled even more in thought. ‘No. He shall not. That was a new creation anyway so there is no hereditary right. Tell him he’ll be allocated five manors to keep himself, but the earldom will go into abeyance.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
And that, thought Martin, pleased with himself at having picked up the nuance, is how much power the regent has. He stands in for the king and can abolish an earldom at will. The king, he recalled, was nine years old, so all power in the realm rested with the man in front of him.
He knew some of what was what, after all. He was cheered a little by this reflection as he watched the lord earl greet the regent. Sir Roger and Sir Hugh were moving towards the rear of the tent, so Martin followed. He would have no problem seeing what was going on, and at least if he stood right next to the back wall, fewer people would stare at him, and there might even be the chance of some fresh air.
The great men of the kingdom – or those of them who supported the king, anyway – entered and the tent filled up. Some of them were bishops, but Martin paid them little heed. Instead he looked at the noblemen: he recognised many devices and nodded to himself at each one. Hubert de Burgh. John Marshal. Richard Fitzroy, who wasn’t much older than Martin was. The Earl of Albemarle.
Martin tensed as he saw Philip enter along with the Earls of Salisbury and Arundel, but fortunately he stationed himself well away from Martin. Arundel moved to stand with some other lords; Salisbury strolled up to the command table and inserted himself casually at a place nearer to the regent than the lord earl, which caused Sir Hugh, just in front of Martin, to whisper something in Sir Roger’s ear. Neither of them had happy expressions on their faces.
Martin tried to concentrate on the talk, he really did. But he knew he wasn’t taking all of it in. Edwin would be soaking this up. But two interesting pieces of information did make him prick his ears. One: tonight they were all going to embark on ships and spend the night there. And two: unless he’d heard wrong, the admiral of the expected French fleet was a monk.
Nobody was looking his way, so he risked bending forward and speaking as quietly as he could into Sir Hugh’s ear, his hand cupped around his mouth. ‘A monk?’
Sir Hugh, after a cautious glance of his own around the tent, whispered back, and Martin listened. Apparently, the man they all spoke of as Eustace the Monk had been committed to the cloister as a boy, but had escaped – and who could blame him, thought Martin – and had then embarked on a life of piracy. He’d raided towns around England’s south-east coast and had recently, with an eye to further gain, put all his ships at the disposal of Louis as he sought to become king of England.
That reminded Martin of the other thing. He bent his head again. ‘And what’s this about us getting on ships? I thought we were here to fight them when they got here, to prevent them getting to London. Are we going to France?’
Martin felt Sir Hugh’s beard scratch his face as the knight sought to answer without drawing attention to their conversation. ‘Not quite. We’re not going to stop them when they land – we’re going to stop them before they land.’
Martin worked his way through the implications of that.
Chapter Eight
It was only once he was inside the walls of Sandwich, traipsing through the unfamiliar streets, that Edwin realised it might not have been a particularly good idea to come out alone. The shops were closed and shuttered; groups of locals who were gathered on street corners stopped talking and stared at him, only resuming their conversation once he had passed. They recognised, presumably, that he was from the host that was there to protect the town from the French – otherwise Edwin wasn’t sure he’d still be in possession of life or limb, never mind his purse – but it was an unpleasant experience nevertheless. He berated himself for his naivety.
The taverns were open. Edwin approached one, but a single look at the riotous interior, and at the vomiting drunks outside – it was only the middle of the morning! – convinced him not to bother. But he didn’t want to go back to the camp yet, either, so he wandered, aimlessly, simply following his feet. He was soon met with the comforting sight of a church, so he removed his hat, smoothed down his hair and entered.
As he adjusted his eyes to the gloom, he looked about for a quiet corner where he could kneel or sit to pray and collect his thoughts. But he was greeted by frightened cries and squawks: there were a number of women and children huddled together who evidently didn’t like the sight of a strange man with a dagger at his belt entering their sanctum. As he stepped in and away from the door they fled out of it, giving him as wide a berth as possible.
‘No, wait, I —’
But they were gone. This is what he had become: a nameless soldier who represented danger to innocents.
He followed them out, in case he could call after them, but there was no sign and he didn’t want to call attention to himself by shouting down the empty street.
As he stood, uncertain, outside the porch, a strange odour came to him on the breeze. He sniffed. What was it? Something tangy, salty? His interest piqued, he left the church behind. He rounded a corner and was met by the sight of – nothing. That is to say, the town simply ended: a great cobbled space with no houses on the other side, just an open expanse of water.
The sea! He’d been told about it, of course, but he’d never seen it. He hurried across to lean on the low wall and look out at it. The water immediately below him wasn’t blue, as he’d been led to expect – it was brown, sludgy and filled with all kinds of muck. But the further away he looked, the more beautiful it became. And endless: the white-topped waves stretched as far as he could see. France was over there somewhere. He drank it in, unable to take his eyes off the swaying, mesmerising sight.
Of course, it was dangerous as well as beautiful. He couldn’t swim, or at least not very well; he could manage to splash about a bit in the shallows of the river at home, but anything more than that was beyond him. When other boys his age had been teaching themselves, he’d been hard at work with Father Ignatius learning to read and write, skills he would need in the career mapped out for him. They had teased him, of course, but he had enjoyed his learning so he didn’t really mind when they all swam off into the middle and he stayed by the bank; he had the best of the bargain. One or two of the poorer boys were quite strong swimmers: the river was full of eels, but if you didn’t own a boat the only way to catch them was to dive down and place the baskets on the riverbed, and then go back to pick them up the next day. Those families who needed the eels to supplement their diet encouraged their sons to swim as much as possible, and, barring the one or two who had drowned over the years, they did themselves and the village a good service. Fortunately, Edwin’s father, being the estate bailiff, didn’t need to resort to such actions, for Edwin didn’t much like the taste of eel anyway.
He should gather his thoughts. Anyone who saw him here daydreaming would think he was some kind of halfwit. He dragged his eyes away from the sea and looked along the dock. He was standing next to the only free stretch of water that there was; the rest was ships, ships everywhere. Their round bellies moved up and down with the swell; masts rose into the sky; ropes ran from every conceivable point to every other point. Edwin stood engrossed. How did
they work? Those rolled-up bits were sails, so if you untied those ropes there, they would unfurl and catch the wind. And then if you pulled on those ones there, you could maybe tilt the sails, depending on which way the wind was blowing? And those ropes at the side must be for –
‘Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to help?’
Edwin turned. The man addressing him was carrying a large bundle on one shoulder, and simultaneously rolling a barrel with his foot. As he saw Edwin’s face he realised his mistake. ‘Oh, sorry mate – thought you were someone else.’
‘Not to worry, I can help you anyw— You’re in the lord earl’s service!’ The man had a small chequered patch of blue and yellow on his tunic.
‘Aye, Earl Warenne. That’s his ship there.’ He gestured with his head, not having a free hand.
‘What?’ Edwin gaped at the vessel in surprise, stopping only when the loose barrel rolled into his leg. ‘Let me help. That looks heavy.’
The man nodded his thanks. ‘Just take it to the bottom of the gangplank, if you would.’
Edwin rolled the barrel, trying not to let it bounce too much on the stones. ‘I didn’t know the lord earl had his own ship.’
‘You’re in his service too, are you?’
‘I —’ It was going to be too complicated to explain. ‘Yes, yes I am. I’m from Conisbrough.’
‘Never heard of it. Up north, is it? I know he’s got lands all over, and you don’t sound like you’re from round here.’
‘Yes. We’ve been on the road for over a week to get here.’
‘I’m Stephen. From Winchelsea.’
It was Edwin’s turn to be flummoxed. ‘Is that near here?’
‘Two, three days’ travel down the coast by land. Quicker if you sail.’
They reached the ship and Edwin stopped rolling his barrel before it could fall into the water. Seen this close the vessel was huge, wallowing up and down and making him feel quite queasy just looking at it. The movement didn’t seem to be bothering the sailors on board, though; they hurried easily round the deck, and some were even high up in in the labyrinth of masts and sails. The ship was fastened to the dock by several thick, wet, green ropes; a single narrow board came down from the side and stopped near his feet. He was glad when one of the sailors came down to take charge of the barrel, as he was fairly sure he would have rolled it straight off the plank and into the water if he’d tried to push it up there.
