B0078XH7HQ EBOK (28 page)

As he reached his parents’ house he looked up, surprised, having no idea how he’d got there. Well, either he was losing his mind altogether or God had guided his footsteps. The sense of dread was still there, but perhaps it was lessening: he felt only a slight reluctance to cross the threshold and had little trouble in quelling the feeling. He stepped inside.

Peter was in heaven. At least, he couldn’t imagine that heaven could be any better than this. He was warm, dry and had a full belly, and even the unaccustomed sensation of being clean didn’t worry him overly.

When the knight had first come into the stall, he’d been terrified, burrowing as far under the straw as he could in a futile attempt to make himself invisible. But he’d been dragged out, and was cowering, preparing himself to be struck and thrown out into the cold, when he realised that nobody was trying to hit him. This was so unusual that he risked looking up. The face looking down at him was full of compassion and kindness – the face which he’d seen the day before, when it had heralded something to eat. He began to feel more hopeful.

Sir Roger had looked at the pathetic creature before him and felt nothing but pity. The boy was a peasant, was supposed to be beneath contempt, unnoticed as he lived out his life solely in order to serve those above him, but Roger had ever been cursed with the ability to see the peasants as people, and their hardships struck him anew every time he was faced with them. It was very complicated. How was he supposed to reconcile God’s law with the way the world worked? The bible told him to give freely to the poor, which was something that most nobles did, with greater or lesser degrees of generosity, but had not Jesus said that it was easier for a poor man to reach heaven than a rich one? Had He not encouraged His true disciples to give away all that they owned, and even to serve the poor? How was this to be, in a world where only a small number of the people even existed in their own right? He was no theologian, but he felt the fundamental contradictions of it all in a way that his fellow knights and nobles didn’t seem to. The ability to think was a definite disadvantage.

But anyway, what all of the fine thoughts and philosophical debates boiled down to was the dirty, hungry, frightened child before him. The Lord’s word was clear on this – he must be helped, given charity. But what was charity? A meal now, to be forgotten by evening? Even a new cloak wouldn’t keep him warm forever. No, Roger needed to do something more permanent, and he had an idea.

Thus it was that Peter sat in the luxury of the knight’s tent, having first been washed thoroughly and somewhat roughly by some soldiers outside. Roger watched as the boy looked around him, marvelling at the wooden bed with its mattress and covers, the stitched hanging which divided the tent, the chest containing what must be to him all sorts of strange items, and the stool on which he sat. While he marvelled, he ate. He crammed the food into his mouth so fast that eventually Roger had to stop him lest he make himself sick. Roger had watched the boy’s eyes open wide, and felt ashamed that surroundings which seemed plain to him should be seen as such luxury. Once the child had finished eating and had had the chance to draw breath, Roger told him of the plan he had. There was no way, of course, that he could take the boy on as page, for it was not his place and the rules absolutely forbade it, and the Lord knew how many people he would offend if he tried. No, each must keep to his allotted station in life, but within that there were … possibilities. Why should he not take on a servant? Normally he lived plainly, but it would not be out of place to take on a body servant, given that he couldn’t afford a squire. The boy would be cheap to keep – he could work for food and lodging for now, no need to worry about wages until he was older. Of course, there was the matter of releasing him from his servitude on the earl’s estate, but even with his meagre funds, Roger felt that he could offer the earl enough of a fee to release one homeless child. If he himself should have to go hungry a night or two to afford the cost then it would do him no harm – in fact it would be good for his soul.

He explained all this gently to the boy, unsure of the reaction he would get. Would the call of his birthplace be too much? He’d surely never travelled outside of the village or its surrounding fields, and mayhap the thought of travelling far away would be too much. But he had underestimated the nature of hunger. The boy was looking at him with disbelief at his good fortune – regular food and a roof over his head. How sad and yet how comforting to know that a person could want so little. No cares about wealth or status, just a simple need to stay alive. Roger decided that they might as well start the boy’s employment now – he could speak to the earl later, there would perhaps be the chance to catch him after dinner – and issued his first order. It wasn’t difficult, merely an instruction to take out the plate and cup which he’d just used and wash them, but it was heart-warming to see the alacrity with which Peter jumped up, ready and eager to serve. Roger felt as though he had made the world a little happier, and perhaps put a smile on the face of the Lord.

Edwin’s eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness inside the cottage as he stepped in. His mother was making the most of the weather and had the door and shutters open, but it still seemed dark after the brightness of the day outside. As he stepped over the threshold he felt something catch his shoulder, and cursed inwardly as the loose nail by the door made another tear in his tunic. He really must get that fixed – his mother, much shorter than he, might hurt her face on it. In fact there were many things he must do, if only he could find the time. The cottage might be one of the best in the village, but it still needed regular maintenance, and again he realised that he hadn’t kept up with it. The cottage was certainly not about to fall down, but the signs of unkemptness which he had noticed before were still there – a couple of patches of daub fallen off, a thinning of the thatch on one part of the roof and, of course, that loose nail. He didn’t want his mother to end up living in squalor just because he couldn’t find the time to carry out the duties of the man of the house.

His mother came to greet him warmly, exclaiming at his haggard look. She fussed about him, insisting that he sit down and partake of the meal she was about to serve to father. Edwin realised with a start that it was late in the morning – he’d been speaking with William and with the cook much longer than he thought. He sat down on a stool by the warmth of the cooking fire and sank into his own misery, but the hot meal started to bring him back to himself, and he was able to think once more.

‘How is he?’

His mother shook her head in silence. She now looked resigned rather than upset, and Edwin knew that the end must be near. And yet the fear was not so overwhelming. He sensed that it had started to be replaced with a deep feeling of sadness, and didn’t know whether this was better or worse.

‘Can I go and see him?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Edwin rose to go through to the bedchamber, but turned back to his mother. ‘Why don’t you come too?’

She demurred. ‘I have things to see to … you might want to see him alone …’

Edwin stopped and took her hand. ‘Mother. We might not have much time left together, so let’s take the opportunity now. Come with me and we’ll all sit together for a while.’

It was difficult to know who needed the comfort most as they sat on either side of the bed. The dying man, living his last days in pain; the widow-to-be, soon to lose her husband and means of support; or the young man worried about the task he’d been set, worried about his mother’s fate, his father’s soul, his own future. He reached out to take both their hands and they sat in silence.

As the quiet washed over him, thoughts came unbidden to his mind. Later he would attend Berold’s burial and the Mass for his soul, and he was still disturbed by the thought that the death might have been prevented if only he’d been more alert. He cast his mind back to the last time he’d seen him alive. Berold had hailed him and had wanted to talk. But then he’d stopped, and stopped suddenly. Something had caught his eye and he’d changed his mind about speaking. What had he seen? Or more to the point, whom had he seen?

Edwin closed his eyes and tried to recall the scene in greater detail. He and Martin had been standing in the inner ward. They had been facing the gatehouse, and so Berold must have been looking at the keep …

Suddenly he stood and disentangled his hands, to leave his parents alone with each other in their sorrow. He ached to be able to support them, but he couldn’t. He needed to see Sir Geoffrey, for he knew who had killed Berold.

Sir Geoffrey was leaving the keep with Robert when he was surprised to be confronted by a panting Edwin, who reached out and grasped his arm.

The boy sucked in a deep breath – really, he would have to do some training if he was going to serve the earl properly in future – and managed to push out some words. ‘Sir Geoffrey, I think I know who killed Berold.’

The knight felt his heart leap. ‘The same person who killed de Courteville?’

Edwin stopped halfway through another breath. ‘I’m not sure about that, for I can’t put the two things together just now. But I’m sure that Berold was killed by Walter de Courteville.’

Had the day just got a little brighter? ‘Well then, we must apprehend him immediately, for he’s probably guilty of the other killing as well.’ That would wrap it all up very simply and satisfactorily. He started to move off.

But Edwin had not yet relinquished his arm. ‘Please, Sir Geoffrey, don’t. Or at least not yet. Listen, I’m sure that he was the one who killed Berold. Yesterday I was in the ward when Berold came up to me, excited, saying that he had something that he needed to tell me. But then he saw someone over my shoulder, said that he’d changed his mind, and then ran off. I am certain that the person he saw coming out of the keep must have been Walter.’

Sir Geoffrey thought back. Yes, de Courteville had been in the keep yesterday morning, as he himself had stopped him attacking Edwin, and had then accompanied him to see the earl. But he didn’t grasp the significance of why this was important.

Edwin explained. ‘I think that Berold had seen something, something which may be related to the first murder. He was going to tell me, but then on seeing Walter, he didn’t. I think that it must have been Walter whom he saw doing something, and then instead of telling me about it, he went to speak to Walter directly. Perhaps he hoped to gain something – some payment for keeping quiet. But then Walter killed him.’

Sir Geoffrey wished his mind could keep up with the young man’s. ‘So, Berold must have seen Walter killing his brother, and then threatened him with the knowledge? This still leads us back to him being the murderer. I’ll find him now.’ Again he turned.

The hand was still on his arm. ‘Please, Sir Geoffrey, I need some time to think it through, as that still doesn’t seem right.’

Sir Geoffrey hesitated. It would make things extremely convenient if he were simply to arrest Walter, but he himself had asked for Edwin to be the one to investigate as he knew he was clever, so he supposed he’d better listen to him now. ‘Explain.’

The younger man’s face assumed a pained expression. ‘I still don’t know who killed the visiting earl, but the more I think about it, the more I believe it isn’t Walter. If he wanted to kill his brother, why wait until he was here, in a strange and hostile place? Surely it would have been easier to arrange some kind of accident nearer home. And Martin and I have already been through the times and places and we can’t find that Walter would have had a chance to go up to the top of the keep and then down again. And then, why marry the earl’s sister? What has that got to do with anything? If he’d come here to kill his brother, surely he wouldn’t get involved in something else so complicated?’