by C. B. Hanley
Alf moved his lips once more, and Edwin caught the last whispered words. ‘Until now. Couldn’t protect … forgive … bury us together.’ He swallowed. ‘Please.’
‘I will.’ There was no point trying to give false hope about survival – no man could live through such a terrible injury. Indeed, he would not last more than another few moments. But one more thing … ‘Alf. Alf, can you still hear me? What was her name? Her name, so that I can say it over the grave. Alf?’
Alf opened his eyes wide. ‘Edith,’ he said, quite clearly.
And then he died.
Edwin sat for a long moment, his eyes and mind blank, then he laid the cook down with care. He went over to Dickon – for Dickon the name must remain to all except Edwin and the Lord – and picked up the child. He held the body for a moment and then placed it next to Alf. He would ensure they remained together, come what may.
Finally he was able to kneel next to the grieving Sir Roger, whose eyes were still locked on the small, twisted body before him.
‘I sent him away. I said I would keep him safe. Safe!’
What was there to say? There was nothing, so Edwin gripped the knight’s shoulder in sympathy and watched the tears – of sorrow, of pain, of anger, of guilt – course down his face. His own eyes were burning.
Voices sounded from behind them. Those men who had followed Edwin and Sir Roger had, after their initial shock, moved on through the camp, and Edwin could hear various shouts and cries for attention for wounded men and boys. The group now approaching was more measured, and Edwin turned to see the regent himself, surrounded by several lords and bishops. The old man was pristine in his bright surcoat, no blood or sweat or other men’s entrails on him.
Edwin scrambled to his feet and hauled Sir Roger up with him. The regent looked from one to the other and then at Peter’s body. ‘Your boy?’
Sir Roger, incapable of speech, nodded.
The regent clapped him briefly on the back. ‘My condolences.’ He gazed down at Peter again and nodded. ‘There’s blood on his knife, and all his wounds are to the front. He would have made a fine knight.’
His companions murmured assent and they all moved on, their interest in one dead boy fading. Edwin removed his foot from on top of Sir Roger’s, where he had pressed it in an attempt to stop the ill-advised retort of a grief-stricken man.
Once he was sure that the lords were out of earshot he spoke, urgently. ‘A fine knight. Just think about that. How proud he would have been.’ Sir Roger made no reply. ‘You and I know he was a servant, not a page, but the lord regent judged him by what he saw, judged him by his actions. And he died bravely. A fine knight.’
Was Sir Roger just starting to turn that over in his mind? What else could he say? ‘And … it’s not a bad epitaph for a starving beggar boy who never thought he’d leave Conisbrough.’
A huge sob escaped the knight. After a few moments those piercing blue eyes met Edwin’s. ‘He – he did seem to enjoy these last months.’
‘He did. I know he did. He spoke with such pride of serving you, and it meant so much to him. You did a good thing when you took him on.’
Sir Roger rubbed his gloved palms over his face. ‘I felt the Lord telling me to.’ He looked at Edwin with eyes that were still red but no longer dripping. ‘But as the Lord gives, so does He take away … I won’t be able to take him all the way back to Conisbrough to lie with his family, will I?’
‘No. But perhaps we could bury him along with Alf and … Dickon. They were friends, after all.’
‘Very well.’
Sir Roger knelt once more. Gently he opened Peter’s fingers to remove the knife and tucked it in the boy’s belt. ‘A knight should be buried with his sword.’ He reached out and closed the eyes, muttered a brief and heartfelt prayer, and slid his arms under the body. ‘I’ll lay him next to the others. See if you can find something to cover them with, and I’ll have the men start digging.’
Edwin nodded and started to move away. Then he stopped to pick up the broken figure of a toy knight. ‘Sir Roger?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve never felt more like killing anyone than I do now.’
Sir Roger turned to face him, the dead boy cradled in his arms. ‘I know. Curious, then, that we should now finally be at peace.’
Martin looked down at the silent figure on the cot. He was still alive, but he would be dead in a matter of days, if not hours. Nobody could survive wounds like that; the only thing Martin could do for him was to pray that death would come swiftly so as not to prolong the agony. He’d helped to carry him off the ship, load him on a litter slung between two horses, and transport him back to the camp; he’d stood by while an attempt was made to treat the horrific injuries. But it was to no avail, and now he wondered if it might not have been more merciful just to –
A murmur. He was not quite conscious, eyes closed but the lids fluttering as he drifted on a sea of pain. Bandages covered his chest and stomach, but blood and other noxious liquids were already seeping through. Martin didn’t like to touch them for fear of making things worse, so he knelt to wipe the beads of sweat away from the forehead. As he did so, he leaned in to whisper ‘I’m sorry.’
Brother William entered the tent. His left arm was tightly bound: he’d made Martin pull the bolt out, a sickening act he’d never forget as he remembered the sensation of the flesh tearing under his hand. At least it had been a bolt, with its square, armour-piercing head, and not a broadhead arrow that could have caused unimaginable damage – it had come away almost cleanly. Men did still die from such wounds, though, and Brother William, walking and talking now, might be lying on a cot of his own tomorrow, screaming in agony as he turned black and poisonous. Even he let out a grunt of pain during the removal process, but he hadn’t been too bothered by the subsequent copious bleeding, which he said would help, although Martin couldn’t work out how that might be. Still, bleeding was the recommended cure for many things, wasn’t it? Then, bizarrely, the monk had told Humphrey to pour a cup of the earl’s best wine over the wound before binding it, which must have stung to high heaven.
He should probably be resting, letting the unscathed such as Martin care for their wounded, but there were many and he was a monk, so he’d hefted a bag of salves in his good right hand and said it was his duty. He was still wearing the gore-soaked robe in which Martin had first seen him after the battle; there was no point changing it before dealing with bloody slashes and cuts or he’d only sully another. As he neared the cot, Martin could see that the stains had soaked into the unbleached wool and dried out, making the garment stiff and crusty.
The monk knelt and spoke a brief prayer. Once his eyes were open again he took the cloth from Martin’s hand. ‘I’ll stay here. You’d better go and see to Adam.’
Martin nodded and stood, taking a silent and probably final farewell of Sir Hugh. He ducked out the doorway and stood for a moment, rubbing his tired eyes. The survivors from among Sir Hugh’s men were sitting about in a loose and silent circle, with Edwin and Sir Roger among them. Martin had heard about Sir Roger’s loss, but he had avoided speaking to him about it as he just didn’t know what to say. There were only so many times in a day a man could say ‘I’m sorry’ about a violent death.
He was glad when it was Edwin, rather than the knight, who made his way over. Edwin had a look of enquiry on his face and Martin shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ There it was again.
The men about him continued to stare at the ground. But another was approaching: to Martin’s surprise, it was Humphrey. Had he come to summon him back to the lord earl? But Humphrey gave him only the briefest nod before entering the tent. Martin heard him speak to Brother William. ‘Perhaps you’d better go. There are others you might be able to save. I’ll stay here with him until –’
Brother William murmured something and issued forth from the tent. He moved to place a hand on Sir Roger’s shoulder and offer what comfort he could before heading off.
Martin st
ood with Edwin, who seemed as loath to break the silence as he was. He could hear Humphrey moving inside the tent, perhaps settling himself on a stool for his vigil. Martin’s dazed mind couldn’t connect the two men, couldn’t work out why the earl’s marshal should want to sit with the dying knight, so the word, when it came, hit him hard.
‘Father. Father, can you hear me?’
Martin looked in astonishment at Edwin, who shrugged. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘How could I possibly …’ Everything was taking its time to sink into Martin’s mind this afternoon, and this was no exception. ‘You mean, you did know?’
‘Of course. They’re not actually that different when you think about it.’
Martin couldn’t process that. The tough, bluff, bellicose old knight and the smooth steward who was … well, Martin wouldn’t go quite as far as calling him ‘effeminate’, but still.
Edwin was shaking his head. ‘If I’d known you didn’t know, I’d have said something. They have different paths in life, yes, but the same determination to do things right, and to serve the earl. And if Sir Hugh shaved his beard off, or Humphrey grew one, you’d see they look quite alike. I can’t believe you never noticed.’
Martin was trying to force himself to think clearly. ‘He’s Sir Hugh’s heir?’
‘No. He has an older brother who is a knight and who will inherit, so he had to make his own way in the world. Sir Hugh wanted him to train as a knight anyway, to get a place in someone’s household, but Humphrey preferred something different. They argued about it.’
Martin stood in silence, but he was too close to the tent. He could hear Humphrey continuing, sounding agonised as he poured out words into the ear of a man who in all likelihood couldn’t hear them. ‘Father, I know I’ve always been a disappointment to you, but …’
Martin didn’t need or want to hear this – it was between the two of them and he had no place intruding. Instead he took Edwin by the elbow and steered him away to the edge of the camp. ‘I probably haven’t got much time, because I need to get back to my lord and Adam, but I just wanted to say …’ he trailed off.
‘Yes?’
‘I…’ But now it came to it, he couldn’t put it into words. If he could, then Edwin was the right person to talk to, Edwin was the one who might understand, but he couldn’t. Not today. ‘It doesn’t matter. You go back and stay with Sir Roger, and I’ll try to find you later.’
Edwin was looking at him in the way that he had – a shrewd glance that probably saw straight through him. But he didn’t push the matter. ‘All right. Talk to me when you’re ready. And look after Adam.’
Martin made his way back through the camp. It should have been full of raucous man celebrating their victory, celebrating their survival, their life, their new-found riches; but the attack on the camp that had cost the lives of servants, children and even some women had dampened their enthusiasm. The men sitting around fires and drinking hard were doing so to toast absent friends and to forget, not to celebrate.
He slowed his pace, wanting a few precious moments to himself. The jumble of things that he’d wanted to say – to confess – to Edwin were distilling themselves into separate thoughts. The first was that, now he looked back at the event as a whole, he’d been nervous before the fighting began, but once it had started he had – there was no other word for it – enjoyed himself. While he was fighting he could feel his strength, feel that he was doing something he was good at, feel that he had untapped reserves that could go on forever. He had lost himself in the sensation, and crucially he had been able to forget everything else. All his worries about his lord, about his own life, about Joanna … all had disappeared. They had been replaced with something wonderful, something pure, and he wanted to feel that way again. He craved it.
In some ways there was nothing wrong with that – he was going to be a knight, after all, and a lord had no use for a knight who was afraid of battle. But there was more to it. When he had come back to himself, it was like he was falling, crashing down, and the feeling had been made ten times worse by seeing the havoc he had wreaked. The death, the agony … all down to him. And not just enemies, either: Sir Hugh had been at his side as they had powered their way through the press to reach the earl; Sir Hugh had also stood and defended his lord. But Martin had forgotten him. As the red mist had descended, as he’d come to see nothing except the enemies in front who must be cut down, he had lost any awareness of a comrade by his side, and he had left the old man to fight alone. One of the thoughts that would torture him from now on was the question of whether, if he’d kept his head a little more, one of the lord earl’s most loyal retainers and bravest warriors might not now be leaching his lifeblood away in a close and stinking tent.
And that, of course, led him on to the second thought that would plague him in the darkness of the night. He had seen the unprotected back of a man he loathed and had felt the urge to stab it. A man fighting on the same side. In the back. He had managed to stop himself, but only just. And when he replayed the incident over and over, he knew in the depths of his soul that if he were put in the same situation again, he might not be able to hold back.
He had reached the earl’s pavilion. It was now imperative that he appear normal, so he took a moment to compose himself.
Martin entered and was immediately thrown off balance by the sight of the Earl of Salisbury. Startled, he looked about him for Philip, but the earls were alone. There was some movement off in the service area to his right, but Martin couldn’t face going in there. Instead he went to the sleeping area to check on Adam.
He was asleep, but it seemed to be genuine sleep rather than unconsciousness. He had been knocked out while he sought to protect the earl; he had been holding the shield over his lord rather than over himself as the blows rained down, and one of them had caught him on the back of the head. He’d only been wearing a pot helm, but that and the padded coif beneath had saved the worst of the damage: he had a lump on the back of his head but no cut, no bleeding. Remarkably, he had suffered no further injury while lying prone: whether this was because the men about him thought him already dead, or whether they recognised – even in the heat of their own moments – that he was a boy wearing no mail, Martin didn’t know, but he thanked God and all the saints for it.
Adam had been among those who were transported back to the camp, amid all the rumours whirling about an attack on it during their absence. Martin had walked by the side of the litter as he couldn’t find his horse, and he was too big to ride pillion with anyone else. Adam had regained consciousness on the way, seeming dazed but knowing who he was and who Martin was, so that was a good sign. By the time they’d reached the camp the raid was all over, though it was clear from the evidence that there had been casualties. Martin had at first no mind for them: he could think only of those close to him. He’d seen Edwin alive after the end of the combat, clambering back over to the earl’s ship along with Sir Roger; he knew that Adam was injured and Sir Hugh was dying. And the lord earl was unscathed: those who had knocked him to the ground and surrounded him were intent on capturing rather than killing him.
Martin sat in silence next to the younger boy, listening to his steady breathing, and counted his blessings. All he wanted, for now, was to sit here in silence for a while longer. But he couldn’t, of course; the lord earl had seen him come in and would be expecting him to organise things. Wearily, Martin stood and made his way back into the main space.
The earls were now accompanied by three figures, flitting round placing drinks and bowls of washing water, and picking up discarded pieces of armour. Little Hugh was one of them, and he looked uncertainly at Martin for approval. Martin managed a nod before he could face the rest of the room. The other two were Gregory and Matthew; Philip was nowhere to be seen.
A feeling of relief washed over Martin, but of course it would only be temporary. Philip was no doubt on some errand and would be back soon. Martin would have to face him and his malevolence in the full kno
wledge of his own feelings of guilt. He would have to push it all down even further so as not to give himself away.
But he didn’t come. During a lull, Martin took the opportunity to pull Gregory to one side. ‘Philip?’
The boy looked up at him with a face that was black and blue. Lord, had he been in the thick of the battle as well? ‘He’s dead.’
Martin gaped. Some sort of feeling swept through him from head to toe, but he couldn’t have put a name to it if he had tried. He just stared.
Gregory took his silence as a request for further information. ‘He went over the side of the ship. I … saw him fall.’
His eyes, as Martin looked into them, were bottomless. He noted in passing that Matthew, who was surely too young to have taken part in the battle, was also sporting a bruised face. What must it have been like to live under Philip’s rule every day and night, with no escape? But he couldn’t … surely …
For the last time that day, Martin said it. ‘I’m sorry.’
Gregory kept his gaze locked with Martin’s for a moment longer. ‘Don’t be.’ He turned away to serve his lord.
The grave was a little way apart from the others.
A long trench had been dug outside the camp, in which the bodies of those who had died in the raid and those who had been brought back from the ships were laid. Side by side, head to toe, all very neat. Dead men, dead women, dead children. Edwin could have counted the corpses if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead he exchanged a glance with Sir Roger, and the two of them moved further away to a patch of ground on the slope overlooking the town and the sea, where the fresh breeze fluttered the grass.
They began to dig, being joined in their task by others, for the grave needed to be large: three of Sir Hugh’s foot sergeants and four of his archers, including Nigel, lay shrouded alongside Alf, Dickon and Peter. Edwin was glad that Nigel hadn’t gone into the sea with the French corpses; he would rest better here.
