B0078XH7HQ EBOK (30 page)

‘So,’ the knight continued, ‘you weren’t alone – or you say you weren’t alone – when you arrived at the chapel. And your brother arrived before Father Ignatius did. He – Father Ignatius, I mean – came straight into the chapel? He didn’t go further up the stairs?’

Walter shook his head. He was still afraid that the knight might hit him again, so he struggled to recall anything else which might be useful. Was he in real danger of being accused of the murder? What would happen to him if so? Would he be put in some cell, beaten, even hanged? He could feel the noose tightening around his neck …

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. He 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.

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.