Whited Sepulchres (20 page)

And on the hard ground next to his horse, Sir Gilbert lay silent and still.

Edwin was entering the garden of his home when, to his surprise, Sir Geoffrey came out of the house.

They both stopped and stared for a moment before the knight recovered himself. ‘Edwin. I just came to see how your mother was getting along now your father is gone. If she needed anything.’

He spoke in a level tone, but were his cheeks faintly red beneath his grey beard? Edwin was so taken aback by the sight of Sir Geoffrey, knight of the manor of Rochford, commander of the castle garrison, right hand of the earl, standing there among the beans, that he couldn’t open his mouth.

Sir Geoffrey put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was going to look for you anyway. I wanted to talk to you about these outlaws. Come.’

Edwin allowed himself to be led up the garden path. His insides twisted slightly. ‘You don’t need me to … question them, do you?’

The knight shook his head. ‘No. Once we had them in the cells and they knew there was no chance of escape, they talked readily and we didn’t need to persuade them at all.’

Thank the Lord for that. He didn’t think he’d have the stomach for trying to get confessions out of men who didn’t want to give them. Once, when he was little, there had been a trial by ordeal in the village; his father had told him in no uncertain terms to stay away, but, curious, he’d crept among the legs of the crowd. The stench of burning flesh and the strangled noise emanating from the throat of the man trying not to scream as he carried the red-hot iron bar were branded into his memory. He shivered even now.

Sir Geoffrey was continuing. ‘As we thought, they’re French. They were fugitives from Lincoln – most of them fled south after the battle, but a few headed this way. Apparently they reckoned they’d have a better chance as the land wasn’t razed and there weren’t people lying in wait for them for revenge.’

At the name of the town Edwin felt a bit dizzy and stopped, bending over. By now they were by the village green, and fortunately Sir Geoffrey didn’t notice – he’d already stepped away to hail Robin the carpenter, who was catching the rays of the evening sunlight to work on something on trestles outside his workshop. It was a coffin.

That didn’t help. Edwin breathed deeply. The men who had caused terror and death in the area were normal men. They had done evil things, but they were ordinary villagers who had been called up by their lords to fight in a war they knew nothing about. Some of them might have wives and children back home. Their lords had been captured and would be ransomed – he’d heard it himself as he stood in the shadow of the great cathedral in Lincoln. But for these common men there would surely be no other penalty than death. They had been pulled from their homes, had killed and damaged, and now the people of Conisbrough would want revenge. And the wives and widows left in France would teach their children to hate, so that they too would want revenge in the years to come, and the wheel would turn once more.

Sir Geoffrey finished talking to the carpenter and returned. Edwin tried to look normal.

‘It’s nearly done – we should be able to bury Hamo tomorrow.’

That would be good. It was never wise to have bodies lying around too long in this weather. ‘You won’t send him back to his family?’

The knight shook his head. ‘It’s too far, and a dangerous journey through land still filled with Frenchmen. I won’t waste another man’s life conveying a corpse – we’ll bury him here and send word to his family.’

Edwin looked around the village. It was peaceful in the late afternoon sunshine, children playing and squealing outside their homes, women moving in and out of their houses, some chatting to each other, the smell of woodsmoke and pottage as the supper cooked over the hearth, awaiting the return of the men who had laboured in the earl’s fields since daybreak. It was as good a place as any to lie for your eternal rest.

Sir Geoffrey spoke. ‘God knows there will be enough deaths and burials in the next few days.’ Edwin looked at him questioningly. ‘The woman and child tonight – the babe will have to go to its grave after dark, so Father Ignatius will bury its mother just before. And I’ve just told Robin to spread the word about the Frenchmen: now they’ve talked, we’ve no further use for them. We’ll hang the lot at first light, and our lord wants the whole village out to watch, to show what happens to those who break his laws. But there will be no burial for them – they’ll hang until they rot, as a lesson to others.’

He strode away, and Edwin tried to stay steady on his feet. Fortunately William Steward was hauling himself across the green, so Edwin went to speak with him, glad of the excuse to move.

They sat down on the edge of the platform of the pillory, and Edwin brought him up to date with the news of the day, such as it was. He tried to quell his panic at his lack of progress, and faltered into silence. As the sun started to set they watched the men returning from the fields.

The church bell began to toll, and gradually people emerged from their houses and made their way over. Edwin stood to follow them, heaving William to his feet and slowing his pace so his uncle could keep up.

He joined the end of the mournful procession as it wound round the outside of the church to a grave which had been dug close to the wattle fence marking the edge of the churchyard. Father Ignatius led the way, followed by John and three others carrying the parish coffin, then young John, with Godleva just behind carrying the tot, and Cecily carrying a tiny bundle wrapped in linen; they were followed by more or less the entire village – a good turnout for a family most of them didn’t know well, a show of solidarity.

Edwin watched as the woman’s shrouded body was lifted out of the coffin and lowered into the ground. Young John was sniffing and rubbing his eyes, while his little sister howled in Godleva’s arms. Their father stood with clenched fists as Father Ignatius said the prayers for the dead, and men shovelled earth into the grave. Then, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the last glow of the daylight bathed the scene, the priest led the way out of the gate and round to the outside of the graveyard, where a row of tiny mounds were lined up against the fence. There could be no burial in consecrated ground for an unbaptised infant, one still with the mark of original sin on it, but Father Ignatius was a merciful man, and he had always allowed such babes to lie as close to the churchyard as he could. As they stopped by the pitifully small hole in the ground, Edwin realised they were directly opposite the place where John’s wife now lay, so that she and her child would be separated only by a few yards as they slept their eternal rest. Edwin closed his eyes and prayed as hard as he could that the child, innocent as it was, would not suffer the flames due to its unbaptised state. Surely the Lord could not be so cruel as to treat it the same as the godless and the heathens?

By now the crowd of villagers was drifting away – the burial of a baby was not an uncommon occurrence, and they had to rest before their labours started again on the morrow. Still, Edwin noticed that those of the villagers who had their children with them were holding them close. Finally, John and his family were led away by Godleva’s father, and Edwin was left with his mother, his aunt and uncle, and Father Ignatius on his knees beside the grave. Cecily was upset, having watched the poor thing live and die within a few breaths, and his mother and William took her away.

Father Ignatius stood and brushed the earth from the knees of his habit. He sighed. ‘Come, Edwin, come in and sit with me a while. I’ve buried many children in my time, but sometimes it’s difficult to know why the Lord acts as He does.’

Edwin followed him through the darkness to the small house attached to the church. Once inside, Father Ignatius lit a rushlight and placed it on the table, where it spluttered unevenly, casting a small puddle of smelly light. He retrieved a flagon and two pottery cups, and poured a small amount of ale into each.

There was a melancholy silence for a few moments. Edwin felt he had to break it.

‘How was Aelfrith’s mother?’

Father Ignatius sipped his ale and exhaled slowly. ‘She is well, thank the Lord. She needed comfort, but she will live to see another day.’

Edwin crossed himself and murmured thanks, but he wasn’t surprised. Aelfrith’s mother was well known, and the Father must have been aware that he’d have a long walk in the sun for nothing. But he looked more relaxed now that Edwin had changed the subject, so now might be a good time to try and continue the conversation they’d had earlier.

‘So, Father, earlier when you were called away, we were speaking of Hamo.’

The priest coughed a little and put his cup down. ‘Were we?’

‘Yes, we were. And you were about to tell me of what he’d said to you.’

Father Ignatius made an uncomfortable movement on his stool. ‘You know very well I can’t tell you anything the man told me under the seal of confession.’

‘I’m not asking you to. Sir Geoffrey said he had seen you talking together several times, and he can’t have been in confession all the time.’

‘Well …’

Edwin could feel his temper being tested. He put his own cup down. ‘Father. Do you remember the last time I had to ask you for information? A few weeks ago?’

Even in the dim and flickering light, Edwin could see the priest’s face turning white. He crossed himself again and looked at Edwin, who tried to maintain his stern face. He still wasn’t very good at this. Still, at least there was no option of having to resort to violent tactics with a man of God, like there might have been with the Frenchmen earlier. He continued to stare, and let the silence develop.

Eventually he had his reward. Father Ignatius looked down. ‘All right. I don’t think he meant anyone else to know, but as he mentioned it in conversation and not during the sacrament of confession, then I will tell you. He was considering taking holy orders.’

Edwin felt his mouth opening in shock.

Father Ignatius nodded. ‘Yes. Hamo was going to become a monk.’

Joanna prayed with more fervour than usual as the meal was set before her. Dear Lord, what a lucky escape they’d had.

Isabelle had been in hysterics, unable to stop screaming. Joanna had tried in vain to comfort her as Sir Roger, who was nearest, flung himself from his horse and bent desperately over the prone man as the rest of the noble party dismounted and gathered round.

‘He breathes!’

Joanna’s relief was such that she staggered, even as she tried to hold Isabelle upright. Thank the Lord that Sir Gilbert had managed to fall sideways, away from the horse, otherwise he could have been crushed. Sir Roger, on his knees beside his friend, looked up at the earl. ‘I think he’s just knocked himself out, my lord. I can see no blood and his head doesn’t seem to be dented. Perhaps we could arrange to carry him back to the castle?’

The earl jerked his head at the chief huntsman, who had been hovering in the background. ‘See to it.’ He turned to Isabelle and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Come now, he’ll be fine.’ He seemed outwardly calm, but Joanna could see the worry in his eyes. She looked down before he might spot her staring at him, focusing instead on the dusty grass.

While the men were fashioning a makeshift stretcher from branches and cloaks, Sir Roger stood. He looked from Sir Gilbert to the stricken horse, now shaking all over and looking on the verge of collapse. After a glance at the earl he drew his hunting dagger with some reluctance. Joanna had the presence of mind to look away but she could still hear everything as he spoke softly and comfortingly to the animal before slitting its throat. The Lady Ela gave a cry as there was a choking noise and the carcass thumped to the ground, Sir Roger murmuring gently all the while, but her husband had little sympathy for her. ‘They all go for dogs’ meat in the end.’ He turned away.

Joanna half-opened her eyes to see the blood spreading over the dry ground and Sir Roger, his sleeve splattered with red, wiping his dagger. The Lady Maud comforted her sister as Joanna supported Isabelle.

As they had made their careful way back, Sir Gilbert was already stirring, his eyes flicking from side to side. Joanna had looked around her as they entered the village, expecting their arrival with the injured man to cause a stir, but the streets were deserted: everyone seemed to be in the churchyard. So they wound their way up to the castle and the huntsmen carried him inside. Joanna prayed all the while, and the Lord listened: by the time Sir Gilbert had been laid in his bed in the guest quarters he was alert enough to recognise them and to ask what had happened to his horse. His attempts to get up were prevented by Isabelle, who, calmer now, told him firmly to stay put. He sank back on to the pillow, probably relieved if the unfocused look in his eyes was anything to go by.

And now they sat without him at the high table in the hall, less boisterous than they would usually be after such an outing. The talk was not of how many birds they’d killed, but of the near miss they’d had. Further up the table, William Fitzwilliam was shaking his head and saying that Sir Gilbert should have been more careful. The Lady Maud, serious for once, nodded in agreement. Henry de Stuteville, on her other side, leaned across. ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t have done you much harm if something had happened to him, would it?’ He sat back and pushed a huge piece of spiced beef into his mouth, dribbling some of the sauce down his beard. Joanna gazed at William Fitzwilliam, who hadn’t answered this comment, and wondered again at the scene she’d witnessed in the chapel. What had he been praying for? But she couldn’t tell, and his face gave no sign.