Whited Sepulchres (2 page)

But his mind had wandered from the earl. Now he was the senior squire he needed to concentrate more on what his lord was talking about, for he had nobody to explain it to him in greater detail afterwards unless Edwin happened to be there, which he wasn’t all the time. How he longed to be out in the tiltyard practising his horsemanship or weapons training, but strength and skill alone didn’t make a good knight, or a good servant to his lord for that matter. He needed to have his wits about him. He put a firm hand on Thomas’s shoulder in an attempt to stop him squirming, and turned his attention to the earl and Sir Geoffrey.

The old castellan was speaking. ‘So you are expecting them all tomorrow, my lord?’

‘Yes. The guest quarters and the hall are going to be crowded, so you’ll have to arrange an encampment outside the walls as well. God knows that my dear sisters don’t like to travel without their attendants and their comforts.’

Martin glanced at him sharply in case the smile was about to disappear, but the earl still appeared relaxed. Martin felt some of his own tension ebb away – if the earl could be sanguine about having all his sisters and their families under the same roof at once then it wasn’t his place to worry about it. Although it would mean that –

The earl sounded satisfied. ‘After all that’s happened recently I should give thanks that we’re all still here to celebrate. It’s good to be home, with family about me, and to be among people I know I can trust.’

He settled himself back in the room’s one fine chair and flicked his fingers at Thomas, who stifled a yawn and moved with irritating slowness to the wine flagon on the side table. Martin watched as he tried to lift it, realised that he needed both hands to do so, replaced it, fetched a cup, thumped it down and then managed to spill the wine everywhere while trying to pour it. Then he handed the cup, still dripping, to the earl. Martin saw Sir Geoffrey’s hands twitch and almost felt him quell the urge to administer a cuff round the ear, but as the earl didn’t seem bothered, merely drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair and then taking the wine without comment, he could do nothing. Thomas smirked at Martin as he resumed his place, licking some drops off the back of his hand. Martin felt his own temper start to rumble. Honestly …

But the earl had drained the cup and was already standing again, dismissing Sir Geoffrey with a wave. ‘Good. I leave the morning’s arrangements to you. Meanwhile I shall go for a ride,’ – Martin straightened, hope rising – ‘Adam, you can come with me. Go and saddle Gringolet.’ Adam was almost out of the room before he’d even finished bowing, grinning all over his face, and Martin watched him with resignation. The earl turned to him. ‘Martin, my sword wasn’t cleaned properly yesterday. I expect better of you – take Thomas and do it again.’

There was much that Martin could say on that subject, but the earl’s tone was verging on being clipped, so he bowed swiftly with a simple ‘Yes, my lord,’ and left the room, pulling the page with him.

Now he was really annoyed. Yesterday he’d been all set to give the earl’s sword a proper clean and polish, a job he enjoyed, but Thomas had begged to be allowed to do it, pleading to such an extent that Martin had given in – after all, the boy needed to practise. But then he’d left him to it, and he hadn’t checked that the task had been carried out properly. Obviously it hadn’t, but much as he wanted to lay the blame with the page, he recognised that it was his own fault for not making sure the work had been done.

He considered sending Thomas up to the earl’s bedchamber to fetch the sword, but realised that he’d probably have to wait all day, so he bade him stay where he was while he ascended himself, loping up the stairs two at a time. When he returned they both went to the armoury, where Martin pointed out – again – where the fine sand, the rags and the oil could be found. He watched as Thomas took his time selecting what was needed, and then they both went outside to find a quiet corner of the inner ward.

As soon as Martin withdrew the sword from the scabbard it took barely a glance to see why the earl had been so annoyed. ‘You didn’t clean this very well, did you?’

The boy said nothing, but the impudent what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look said it all.

A suspicion was growing in Martin’s mind. ‘In fact, did you work on it at all?’ The grin got wider. ‘You didn’t, did you? You begged me to leave you with it, and then you did nothing, just to get me into trouble. You little …’

He started to raise his hand, but Thomas skipped back and stuck out his tongue. ‘You can’t touch me!’

Martin let his hand drop. ‘Of course I can – I’m our lord’s senior squire and I’m supposed to be in charge of you and Adam.’ But even as he spoke, he knew it sounded defensive and that the boy, curse him, had got the better of him again.

‘Senior squire? You’re a nobody. But
I’m
my lord’s nephew, his
oldest
nephew, and when I’m grown up I’ll inherit lots of lands. If you hit me, I’ll tell my uncle about it and it’ll be you who gets punished, not me.’

Damn it, he was right. When Thomas had arrived, his mother had taken Martin to one side and explained in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if he laid a hand on the boy, and Martin knew that he had no choice but to obey. After all, who was he? And he’d have to try and stay out of the Lady Ela’s way once she arrived in case she started on the subject once more and began spoiling her brat again. No wonder he wasn’t looking forward to her arrival. But Thomas was such a wretch! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d made a few mistakes through lack of experience, but he was deliberately disobedient and malicious, playing on his position. But there was nothing to be done. He was of higher rank and that was how the world worked. Sighing, Martin picked up the rag and prepared to do the cleaning himself.

‘Right, I’ve had just about enough of this.’

Martin leapt to his feet, for the speaker was Sir Geoffrey, who had appeared without warning. The knight was carrying a bunch of birch twigs, which Martin recognised well from his youth. He hadn’t been subjected to it for many a year now, though, and the thought of being humiliated like a child again, and especially in front of the smug little imp, was almost too much to bear.

But Sir Geoffrey was speaking to Thomas. ‘You might think you’re too high and mighty to be disciplined, boy, but I’ve been training pages and squires all my life, and I know that nothing ruins a man so much as being spoilt when he’s a child. I beat our lord when he was younger, and I’m not afraid to do it to you. Our lord will want you to grow up into a respectable man and a good knight, and he won’t thank me if I let you get away with these games.’

For the first time Thomas lost some of his poise and began to look worried. He started to back away as Sir Geoffrey swished the birch.

‘But my mother …’

Sir Geoffrey snorted. ‘Your mother? What does she know of the raising of men? I’m well aware that she cosseted you until you were more than old enough to serve as a page – you’re nearly ten years old, in the Lord’s name, and most boys are sent away at seven – but that doesn’t mean that we need to bow to her wishes now.’

Thomas looked really panicked now, his voice squeaking. ‘But our lord is my
uncle
!’

‘Yes, your uncle. So you keep saying. But who’s your father? William Fitzwilliam of Sprotborough? Hardly a name to strike fear into our hearts. And besides, now that the Lady Isabelle is marrying again, your father is yet further removed from the earl and his estates. So
you
need to know that your whining about family and rank will serve you naught – you’ll be treated the same as every other boy who’s been in the earl’s service. Now, act like a man for once and take off your tunic.’

‘You’re not really going to beat me?’ The boy was tearful now.

‘No, I’m not.’

Thomas was so surprised that he stopped crying, and a look of cunning came over his face. ‘That is well, because – ’

The knight interrupted him. ‘I said
I
wasn’t going to. Martin is.’ And he turned and thrust the birch at Martin, who took it in his hand before he had a chance to think about it.

‘Me, Sir Geoffrey?’ He stared stupidly at the twigs.

‘Yes, you. I’ve been watching you as well, and you need to take a firmer hand now you’re the senior. You’re a good lad, but I think you’re in danger of being a bit soft. Giving Thomas his long-overdue beating will do you good.’

‘But – ’

‘Get on with it!’ The voice, whip-sharp, had ordered his life since he was a small boy, and he had no choice but to obey. He was taller by nearly a head than the knight, but there was no question as to where the authority lay.

He reached down with his left hand and took a firm grip of the snivelling Thomas’s arm. Then he raised the birch and brought it down across the boy’s back, not very hard. Thomas howled, much too loudly for Martin’s liking, and certainly disproportionate to the force he’d used.

Sir Geoffrey nodded. ‘Good. Again. Six strokes should do for now.’

Despite his earlier anger, Martin now felt like a bit of a bully as he raised the birch and brought it down five more times on the small back. Thomas’s wailing had drawn an audience, and he was now surrounded by men-at-arms and curious serving men, most of them smiling and cheering. Once Martin had finished, he was seized by an urge to throw the birch as far away as possible, but he took a deep breath and handed it back to Sir Geoffrey.

The knight took it but didn’t move. ‘And?’

It took Martin a moment to work out what he meant. He turned to Thomas, who had collapsed into a weeping heap, and towered above him as he spoke. He tried to keep his voice firm. ‘Now, you will clean and polish that sword as you were meant to, and I will inspect it before it goes back to the earl’s chamber. If it isn’t done properly then there will be consequences.’

Thomas stopped wailing and turned his head, and Martin could see that his eyes were completely dry. They stared at each other for a long moment. Martin hoped that he would never see a look of such venom directed at him again.

Shaken, he turned to leave the boy to his task, but had to push his way through the onlookers who were still gathered. Swearing under his breath, he used his greater size to shove them all aside; one or two of them started to protest, but their words died on their lips – there were, after all, some advantages to being the earl’s senior squire who would be a knight one day – and he felt a rough satisfaction. He still wasn’t looking where he was going, though, and before he knew it he had laid his hand on the arm of a much smaller figure. Horrified, he realised that he had been on the verge of pushing Joanna to the ground. As her eyes met his, startled, he could feel the redness burning in his cheeks, and he lengthened his stride and ran off without a word.

Damn it! He hardly ever got to speak to her without the Lady Isabelle being present, and now he’d missed his chance due to his own inability to control himself. Dear Lord, what was he going to do? This was, of course, his main problem, the one he’d been dwelling on for some time. As the Lady Isabelle’s companion, Joanna would have to accompany her away to her new home once she married, and then Martin would never see her again. The thought of this made him want to curl up and sob, but he had to keep his feelings in check. This was what life was like, and what could he do about it, in truth? He was only a squire, and although he was in one of the best positions in the country, his prospects were still fairly limited, with several more years of training before he would eventually become a knight and hopefully have a portion of his father’s estates settled on him. No, he had no hope of being able to support a wife in the near future, especially one who belonged to one of the realm’s nobler families. Moreover, his father and her cousin would never arrange such a match, and it was up to them, not him, to decide who would marry whom. And anyway, what if she didn’t even feel the same way about him? What if …?

His eyes started to prickle, and he knew he had to get away from all the people in the bustling inner ward. He was seventeen years old, a man, part of the earl’s personal household, and he should be acting like it, but he was going to lose his grip here and he needed to do it in private. He hurried away.

Edwin’s aching head was full as he left the council chamber and made his way down and out of the keep. He slowed and stopped as he reached the bottom of the outside staircase, blinded by the reflection of the sun off the bright stone. He sat on the last step and shielded his eyes for a moment. The inner ward was quieter than it had been in the last few months, for the masons had stopped work until the festivities were over, and they had all dispersed, travelling to their home villages and towns to see their families. They had now finished the kitchen – and thank the Lord for that, for Richard the cook would not have wanted the building work going on while he was trying to cater for a wedding – and apparently would move on to the great hall next. Edwin had no idea how that was going to work, or where everyone would eat while the work was going on, but fortunately that wasn’t for him to organise.

He forced himself to stand up. He was downcast at the thought of the day ahead. For all that he needed the peace and quiet and routine of normal life for a while, he was finding things strangely … dissatisfying. He didn’t know why or what exactly was bothering him, but it was like an itch he couldn’t reach. He’d always quite liked spending time in the steward’s office, helping William with his accounts; the scent of the room with its spice chests was as much the smell of home as the wood smoke and pottage of his house. But now the thought of being cooped up in that little room all day just didn’t appeal. Of course it didn’t help that the gruff but pleasant William wasn’t there, having injured his good leg in a fall: he was now completely unable to walk until it healed. He was laid up in his house in the village, driving his wife to distraction, and his place in the steward’s office had been taken temporarily by Hamo, the earl’s marshal and therefore the man who normally made his travel arrangements and dealt with the outdoor staff instead of organising domestic matters at the castle.