Whited Sepulchres (25 page)

Brother William looked surprised at Edwin’s summons, but he obligingly wiped his knife and spoon, stowed them away, and rose.

Edwin led him out of the hall and into the ward. Where would they not be overheard? Most men would be in the hall eating, but others would still be about their duties. He settled on his favourite embrasure up on the curtain wall – their voices would float away up in the air, and he’d be able to see anyone approaching along the wall-walk – and led the way up the steps. Although the sun was waning, the stones had stored the heat of the day and were still uncomfortably hot. He asked the rather bemused brother to sit, and then joined him.

‘So, Edwin, why have you dragged me away from my fine meal?’ There was an edge to the voice, and Edwin remembered again the scene he’d witnessed in the woods. Monk he might be, but Brother William was a dangerous man. He began to feel that bringing him on his own to a precarious position high off the ground might not actually have been a very good idea.

‘On the – ’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘On the night Hamo died, I saw him in the great hall. He was standing by the service door, and he was staring at me as though he had seen a spirit. All this time I’ve been wondering why he should have looked at me so, but now I’ve realised that it wasn’t me he was looking at – it was you. That was the day you arrived. Did he know you?’

Brother William flexed his arms and Edwin instinctively flinched. But the monk was merely stretching. ‘Ah, it is good to be out of the hall. Fear not, Edwin, for I shan’t harm you. I wasn’t going to say anything: after all, Hamo is dead, God rest his soul, what good would it do? But if it helps you to find out who killed him, then I will tell you our family history.’

Edwin jerked his head up, and the monk nodded.

‘Yes, family, for he was my brother.’ Brother William sighed, and paused to look out over the moat, the outer ward and the golden fields of corn beyond. ‘Settle yourself, for this may take a while.’ He folded his hands inside the sleeves of his habit.

‘I am – or I was – the third of four brothers. Our father was adamant that one of his sons should go into the Church: I think he wanted to atone for something he’d done earlier in his life, and giving the Church one of his children, together with a hefty donation, was his way of doing it. My eldest brother Fulk agreed with him entirely, as well he might, given that it would never be him who had to renounce the world and take up the habit. He swore to uphold my father’s wishes.

‘To start with there was no problem – my second brother Roger was more than happy to take the cowl, and he did so, and rose to be the abbot at Faversham. I was always one for fighting and training, so I became a knight and was part of my brother’s household. Hamo was the youngest and he always knew there’d be nothing for him, so he made a career for himself in another way by serving my lord earl. We were all happy until about five years ago, when my brother Roger died. Fulk received word of it in a letter, and almost immediately he told me I’d have to leave the household and take the cowl, as he’d sworn to our dead father that one of us would always be in the Church, sacrificing his worldly life in order to pray for our father’s sins. As you might imagine, I refused – I was happy being a knight and I was pretty good at it. I didn’t have any lands of my own, but I was a good brother to Fulk and a loyal member of his household.

‘All of that counted for naught, though, against our late father’s wishes, so Fulk threw me out and said he’d have nothing further to do with me. He had some influence with others, and he went about saying that I’d always sworn I’d enter the Church and that I’d reneged on my oath and was no man of honour. So of course I couldn’t find a place in anyone else’s household either. I had no patronage, and the Lord knows you can’t get anywhere in life without that. I thought I’d give it a try, though – if God wanted me to stay out in the world he’d find a way to support me. But He didn’t, and I ended up living almost like a peasant. The only way I could have sunk lower would have been to become some kind of robber knight, using my abilities and my weapons – for I still had those – to steal and survive that way. But I couldn’t in all conscience take to preying upon innocents, so I decided the Lord was telling me to follow my family’s wishes and join a monastery. So I swallowed my pride and went back to Fulk to tell him I’d changed my mind. Once he knew he had his way then all else was forgotten – he came up with a donation which enabled me to take a good place. The only small piece of control I had left was that Fulk wanted me to become a Benedictine, so I defied him and joined the Cistercian order instead. I started at Boxley and then moved to Roche about a year ago.

‘Abbot Reginald, may the Lord bless his soul, could see I was a reluctant brother, so he made excuses for me to be out of the abbey from time to time – I was a useful man for him to have around as a travelling companion when he needed to go anywhere, or if there were tithes or money which needed protecting. I knew that Hamo had joined the service of my lord earl, and knowing he was so close, I had half-formed a plan anyway that I might try to ask him if he might take my place. To be honest I can’t even begin to imagine that he’d say yes, but I was desperate enough to try anything. God knows Fulk wouldn’t be bothered which one of us was a monk as long as someone was. So when Abbot Reginald said that a clerk was needed to join the household, everything seemed to fit together. But of course now it’s too late.’

Edwin stared. ‘But … forgive me, it probably isn’t my place to tell you, but your brother Fulk is dead.’

Brother William sat up straight. ‘Fulk? How do you know?’

‘I heard it from Father Ignatius. Hamo had a letter giving him the news, and he told the good Father.’

He waited to allow Brother William time to receive the news in his heart. The monk crossed himself, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to himself. When he opened his eyes, Edwin continued. ‘There’s something else – Hamo thought you were dead as well. Apparently Fulk had told him you’d left his service and then been killed in a brawl. No wonder he looked as though he’d seen a spirit that night.’

This time there was silence, silence which stretched out into the sky.

Eventually Brother William spoke. ‘Well, there you are then. No household to go back to. Fulk’s sons will believe I’m dead and gone as well, so no point turning up there asking to be taken back. The eldest boy will no doubt have the same trouble again, for he has several brothers of his own. No …’ he sighed again, ‘a monk’s life for me then. Do you know, I’ve spent so long railing against my habit that I hadn’t noticed at all that I’d got used to it. Well, not the endless services or the lack of worldly goods, but it does seem fine to be a part of something, to have “brothers” who are closer to me than my blood kin. I’ll stay in the order, or at least for now, as long as I can remain in the service of my lord the earl, and we shall see what happens. Maybe a suitable household position will come up with someone. The Lord may well have plans for me yet. But if the time comes when the choice is between leaving the order or cloistering myself in the abbey again, I will take the wide world as it is, and starve in it if I must, rather than going back and suffocating.’

Edwin hesitated to say it, but he felt he had to. ‘There’s one more thing you should know.’

‘What’s that?’

‘There’s no easy way to tell you, but … Hamo was thinking of becoming a monk.’

There was a pause and then Brother William threw back his head and roared with laughter, continuing until he shook and his face ran with tears. ‘Oh, God mocks me and the Lady Fortune spits in my face once more.’ He stopped laughing, suddenly, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Still, what makes us men is the ability to take what we are dealt and make something of it, I suppose. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I will leave you. I’ve lost my appetite for food, but I believe I need to pray.’

Edwin watched him make his way along the wall-walk and down the steps, looking after him until long after he had disappeared from sight.

Try as he might, Edwin just couldn’t get to sleep. He turned himself over and over on his straw palliasse while his head buzzed like a hive. It was far too hot, which wasn’t helping: even with no blanket and the fire dampened down it was stifling. But he couldn’t bring himself to open the cottage door and leave it gaping into the darkness. He tried to lie still, but the sound of small creatures in the thatch above him was echoed by the thoughts scratching around in his head. Why would William Fitzwilliam want to murder Hamo?

He dozed a little and imagined that Hamo was calling to him, crying out in his agony. Help me, screamed the spectre. I’m burning. I have poison inside me and it’s burning me up from the inside.

Poison. Edwin was awake again. Poison was an indiscriminate weapon – it could have been meant for anyone. So don’t keep thinking of who could have done what and when; think of why. It’s all about power, Joanna had said. So who has power? The earl, of course. But nobody would want to kill him – that would throw all their lives into chaos and danger. Edwin turned over again, feeling a flea jump from the palliasse on to his neck. If the earl died … he jolted fully awake and sat up, slapping his neck to kill the flea. If the earl died, someone else would take the title, and the power. Until now, that man would be William Fitzwilliam. After the wedding, that man would be Sir Gilbert – he was marrying the earl’s eldest sister. What if William had meant to poison Sir Gilbert, and had ended up killing Hamo by mischance?

Edwin rose and cautiously opened the window shutter. The village was in darkness and all was quiet except for the sound of a baby wailing further down the street. Yes, it was logical that the displaced heir might want to murder the new heir, to retain his position – and that of his sons, including the one he might have used to help him. And it also followed that he would want to make it look like some kind of accident – he would never inherit otherwise. But poison? In a large household further swollen by all those guests? How could he possibly hope to kill just one man? And how could Hamo have got in the way?

He went to lie down again, but the open window bothered him: shadows flitted outside, and in his half-awake state he imagined dark horrors sliding in. He got up and closed the shutter again before returning to his palliasse to lie restless once more. He had to sort this out, or the earl would be very displeased. Martin was now up and about, so Edwin wouldn’t be needed in the great hall any more, thank the Lord, so he’d have more time to think. But just sitting around all day tying his head in knots wouldn’t help.

Edwin got up again, went over to the bucket in the corner of the room, and splashed some water on to his aching forehead. The bucket was nearly empty – his mother would have to take it to the well in the morning, for the water butts in the garden were dry too. Thank the Lord that the well in the village had never been known to go dry, not even in the hot summers which the older inhabitants remembered from years long past. But that didn’t help the fields, which were parched. On the morrow, the whole village, under the reeve’s direction, were going out to the north field to carry water from the river to the wheat and rye crops; it was a day for working in their own fields rather than the earl’s. Edwin thought he might go with them, at least for an hour or two – it would be hard physical labour, but not much concentration would be required, so he would be able to think while he was doing it. And maybe a day’s toil would mean he would actually be able to
sleep
tomorrow night.

As the sun rose, he met everyone else out on the green. The men were joined by most of the women and any children old enough to walk and carry a bucket, for the business of stopping the fatal drooping of the crops was crucial to everyone if the village was to avoid hard times and starvation next year. It was going to be another scorching day, so Edwin took the precaution of tying a piece of linen around his neck to protect it from the sun, as his head was already thumping after his sleepless night and he didn’t want to make it any worse. His mother held out a full aleskin and he tied it to his belt; it would be thirsty work. He hefted his bucket – it was heavy enough empty, the Lord only knew how the little ones would manage – and attempted a smile for his mother and aunt. William Steward hovered in the background, his face like thunder at being left behind with the old and infirm.

They all set off, walking until they reached the bank of the river. The water was lower than Edwin had ever seen it, but there was still plenty to be had; he joined the others making their way over the dry, cracked bank and then through the wetter mud, and dipped his bucket into the flowing river. It immediately became almost too heavy to lift, and he struggled back up the bank and over to the edge of his own strip to pour the water carefully on the earth around the nearest wheat and rye. If he could save it, the mixed crop would give him the maslin for the winter’s bread.

After he’d done this a few more times he stopped to look around him. Everyone was doing the same, but surely there must be a better way? He stopped to survey the field. There were twelve strips in this part, each starting near the riverbank and running up a slight incline for a furlong or so – whoever had laid out the system in the distant past had sensibly decided not to have the strips running parallel to the river, lest one or two villagers gain the advantage of the water – and each strip had a furrow separating it from the next, wide enough for a man to walk down without disturbing the crops. He looked around at all the men, women and children going back and forth from the river with their buckets, and an idea came to him. There were, let’s see, fifty-six people there … he watched a young child fall over with a full bucket, spilling the precious water everywhere and being smacked on the back of the head by her father, and revised that down to fifty, ignoring the smallest half a dozen children. If they all stood about five yards apart, they would stretch from the river to the top of the field, and could pass buckets along the line. After they had watered the top of each strip, everyone could move a pace closer and they could water that part of each strip, and so on. The smallest children could ferry the empty buckets back from the top of the field to the river. But how to persuade people? Despite his exalted position in the earl’s household he wasn’t the bailiff, the reeve or even the hayward, so he had no right to direct the work of the men. He spotted the reeve, heading back to the river with an empty bucket, and drew him to one side, murmuring in his ear.