B0078XH7HQ EBOK (11 page)

Inside was pitch blackness and oppressive silence. None of the light from the kitchen or from the rising sun could permeate the thick walls, and any residual gleam which might have come in through the doorway was lost as soon as he turned to climb the spiral staircase which was set within the walls. The darkness was closing in on him, constricting him, suffocating him … he panicked and ran outside again. As soon as he stood at the top of the steps he began to relax and cursed himself for his foolishness. Now come on! You have a duty to look for your master, which is more important than anything else. What if he’s injured somewhere and he has to lie there all the longer because you are too much of a coward to walk up a staircase with nothing more sinister in it than shadows? Your father did everything he could to get you this squireship – are you going to let him down?

Adam forced himself back inside the door, stood at the bottom of the steps, shaking, and took a deep breath. Wishing he’d brought one of the candles from the great chamber, he started on his way up, suppressing a whimper. The suffocating darkness closed in around him like a blanket and the unfamiliar surroundings made him hesitant, but he slowly made his way up by touching the stone on either side and groping forward with his foot before each step. It wouldn’t be pleasant to miss his footing and tumble all the way back down the stairs … no, don’t start thinking of that! He reached the first floor, passing the door to the earl’s council chamber and the outline of the chapel entrance. The chapel had a small window, and he could see that it was almost dawn. He wanted nothing more than to stop by that little patch of light, but soon he was past it, so he screwed up his courage and plunged into darkness again as he started slowly up the next flight. The stairwell was eerie in the blackness, and with this added to the worry about his master; he became afraid again and tried to quell the rising sense of dread which clawed at his throat. He rebuked himself once more with the familiar questions: what would his lord say if he knew what Adam was thinking? What sort of a coward was he, to be afraid of shadows? How could he possibly imagine that he would ever be a knight if he couldn’t conquer such a simple fear? What would his father think?

He’d reached the next floor. He was now at the limit of his knowledge of the keep: the previous day he’d been as far as the council chamber but no higher. He passed another door, and remembered that the earl slept in the keep: it was his sister who lived in the great chamber, and who had given up her quarters for the duration of their visit. He stood for a moment outside the door, and heard several different sets of snores and breathing, which reassured him that he wasn’t, after all, the only human in the building, alone with the shadows. He carried on round the curved passageway and found another set of stairs leading up: this must be the way to the roof. He took a deep breath and set his trembling foot on the first step.

A short while later he arrived on the roof and heaved a sigh of relief as he leant his shaking body against the solid bulk of the wall. The sun was now starting to show itself above the horizon, and golden shafts of light could be seen across the fields: it was going to be another lovely day. He looked outwards and downwards, noting that there was now some activity in the castle grounds and in the village beyond. He started to walk around the top of the roof, keeping his eyes outwards as he scanned for any sign of his master; his gaze had just fallen upon the stable when his foot kicked something soft. A horrible feeling of foreboding came upon him and for a moment he dared not look, but then he set his jaw and forced his gaze downwards, to see that his foot had met the form of his master, lying face downwards. So he
had
fallen! But what was he doing up here in the first place? There couldn’t have been much to see in the darkness. Adam stooped and put his hand on his master’s shoulder, intending to see if he’d incurred any injury, and heaved to turn him over.

He recoiled in shock and horror, stifling a scream as he backed away. The face was purple and bloated, and a hideous black tongue protruded from the mouth. The body was stiff and cold, and frozen fingers clutched at the neck, where a thin scar ran across the front, encrusted with dark dried blood. But it was the eyes which horrified Adam the most: wide open and bulging, they were staring ahead with an expression of such dread that it seemed that Ralph de Courteville, Earl of Sheffield, had at the moment of his death seen something so terrifying that the memory of it would stay with him until the end of time.

Robert was dreaming.

He was a young boy again, locked in a small room. He was banging at the door and shouting for help, but nobody could hear him. He kept thumping his fists uselessly and calling for someone to let him in. No, wait, that wasn’t right, somehow. Why should he be shouting that? He wanted to get out, not in … he was half-awake and confused. Gradually he returned to the world of the living, but for some reason the banging noise was still going on … at last, the fact permeated his consciousness that the noise was real and was coming from the passageway outside the room. Who in the Lord’s name was causing such a commotion outside the earl’s bedchamber? His lord was also rousing himself, and he indicated that Robert should find out who the owner of the increasingly hysterical voice was. Robert opened the door and as it swung open he had to half-catch a boy, face tear-stained and fists still raised, who fell into the room.

At first Robert didn’t recognise him, but as he and Martin helped the sobbing figure over to a stool and seated him, he could see that it was one of de Courteville’s squires, the one he’d spoken to yesterday. The boy was shivering, and as white as an altar cloth: his eyes looked huge in the pale face, which was marked by several nasty-looking bruises. The lad was trying to say something, was pointing upwards, but he was completely incoherent. The earl motioned to Simon to fetch wine, and he himself took up a blanket and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders. Simon passed the boy a cup, but his hands were shaking so violently that Martin had to hold it for him and force some of the liquid between his chattering teeth. Martin also had a large purple bruise on the side of his face and a cut by his mouth. What in God’s name had been going on? There was no time to consider that now – he needed to focus on the task in hand. The earl stooped so that his head was on a level with the boy’s, and touched his shoulder before stepping back.

‘Now, lad …’ he stopped and turned to Robert. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Adam, my lord, I spoke with him yesterday.’ Robert supported the boy on the stool, afraid he would fall if he let go.

The earl spoke clearly. ‘Now, Adam, listen to me. Take a deep breath and then tell me, calmly, whatever it is that you are trying to say.’

The boy obeyed and began to stammer. ‘My lord …’

‘Yes, I’m here. Tell me.’

Adam tried again. ‘No, my lord, I meant
my
lord. The earl. Upstairs. On the roof. I found him.’ He took another deep breath. ‘He’s dead.’

The earl stared at him without speaking.

There was a long pause. Everyone was looking at the earl. He shook himself and stood up, reassuming his air of authority.

‘Simon, go and fetch Sir Geoffrey.’

Simon was still staring.

‘Now!’

Startled out of his private thoughts, Simon scurried out the door. The earl turned to his squires: ‘You two, go up to the roof. Check if he really is dead and, if so, bring the body down to the chapel.’ Robert nodded and started to pull on his hose and tunic. ‘And you …’, he looked at Adam, who was gazing blindly in front of him and still very pale, ‘you stay here and finish that wine.’ He started to pace around the room as Robert pulled Martin out of the door and up the stairs.

Once they reached the roof the body wasn’t difficult to spot. Robert stared down at it in revulsion. He’d seen death before, of course – who hadn’t? – but this was … different. The purple contorted face, the tongue, and those awful, staring eyes. However powerful and feared the man had been in life, there was no dignity in this death. Slowly he bent down and reached out his hand to close the eyes.

Beside him, Martin suddenly retched. Quickly, Robert stood and spun his friend around.

‘For Christ’s sake, if you’re going to be sick, don’t do it on the body!’ He held Martin’s shoulders as the tall squire emptied the contents of his stomach at the side of the path, and then helped him to stand up as he wiped his mouth. ‘Better?’

Martin nodded. Still shaken, he looked again at the corpse. ‘I suppose we’d better …’ He gestured towards the stairs.

Robert agreed, grimly practical. ‘I’ll take his head, you take the legs.’ He stooped and put his arms around the body under the armpits, clasping his hands at the front of the dead man’s chest, as Martin picked up the legs. The body was stiff, which made it easier to carry. Gingerly they made their way down the stairs, carefully avoiding any contact between the corpse and the walls lest they damage it even more. The load became heavier as they continued, and both were panting by the time they had struggled down to the chapel. But what to do with the body? They could hardly put it on the altar. Martin suggested that they lay it on the floor while he went to find a board and some trestles. He left, and Robert was alone with the corpse. He looked down at it, having an uneasy feeling that the eyes were still looking at him through the closed lids. Some dignity … something was needed. He rearranged the dead man’s clothing to hide the scar across the neck as best he could, and then looked around him for some sort of covering. Finding an altar cloth – was that blasphemous? He didn’t know, but it was the only thing available so it would have to serve – he knelt down and draped it carefully over the body, taking a few moments to adjust everything properly. Then, satisfied with his handiwork, he rose and left the chapel.

Sir Geoffrey was dreaming.

He’d stayed awake long into the night with his old companion Hugh Fitzjohn, drinking and regaling Sir Roger and some of the other knights with tales of their exploits many years before when they’d been young, back in the time when the sun shone more brightly, the air was fresher and knights were bolder. They had reminisced about their campaigns in France fifteen years before, the heroic deeds they’d performed and the acts of chivalry they’d seen. Eventually they’d all drunk too much and fallen into a slumber on the hall floor, but in his sleep Sir Geoffrey dreamt about some of the less gallant aspects of the campaign. War wasn’t about knightly heroics, it was blood and mud and screaming, villages burnt to the ground, and the tear-stained faces of women as they wept over their dead husbands and children. He was back there, was surrounded by the maimed and the dead, they were all rising to stand over him in bloody accusation … in a cold sweat he half-woke to see the ghostly figure of a boy bent over him, and automatically flung his hand up to guard against the attack.

The boy was shaking his arm. ‘Wake up, Sir Geoffrey!’

Slowly he came round, mumbling that it wasn’t his fault, that he’d only been following orders …

The figure was still shaking him. God! But his head felt as though a smith was hammering in it. He struggled to focus and gradually the shape materialised into Simon, still urging him to wake.

‘All right, all right! Stop shaking me, boy, I’m awake.’ He sat up with a groan, and cut short Simon’s excited chatter with a wave of his hand. ‘Stop, stop! Get me something to drink, then I will listen to you.’ The boy obliged, and he took a deep draught of some leftover ale, looking at the slumbering figures all around him. His companions of the night before were still fast asleep, but others around the hall were starting to stir in the dawn light. Stiffly he tried to rise to his feet, but his back and joints protested: he was really getting too old to be sleeping on hall floors, not when he had a proper bed in a chamber of his own. Irritably he waved away Simon’s proffered arm – the day he needed someone to help him to his feet would be the day he gave up on life – and stood. Simon was hopping excitedly from foot to foot, obviously bursting to say something.