B0078XH7HQ EBOK (15 page)

‘Oh.’

They sat in silence until Robert rose with some reluctance. ‘Well, I’m not doing much good here – I should get back and see if my lord needs me for anything. If I get the chance, I’ll tell Edwin about the letter.’

‘Who’s Edwin?’

‘The bailiff. He’s under orders from the earl to find out who killed your master. I hope he’s having better luck than we are.’

Edwin was having no luck. He and Martin had spoken to the day porter, the man whose task it was to look after the gate to the inner ward, but of course he’d been asleep during the previous night, so they’d had to wake the night porter, who wasn’t pleased to have been disturbed. He was in an ill temper as he went through the events of the evening. At nightfall he’d closed the huge wooden gates and barred them, and he hadn’t opened them until dawn. There was a small postern in one of the gates which would admit a single person, so Edwin was hopeful that someone might have entered that way; the porter, however, was adamant that there had been no visitors. And he would have known, as in order to admit them he would have had to leave the small cosy room in the gatehouse where he’d been warming his hands by the fire and venture out into the dark to unbar the door.

Martin and Edwin left the gatehouse and walked back into the inner ward. Edwin was disconsolate. The first time he’d ever met the earl in the flesh, the first time an important task had been given to him, and he was going to fail in it. How on earth was he supposed to find out who had killed the visiting earl? Or why? There were so many things he didn’t know. He walked in grim silence, lengthening his stride to try and keep up with Martin.

As they crossed the ward, they were waylaid by Berold. His face carried an expression of concern which was so unusual that Edwin stopped in his tracks.

‘Berold? What is it?’

‘I –’

He paused, awkwardly.

‘What I mean is …’

‘Yes?’

‘That is –’

Edwin had never seen him like this. ‘Well spit it out then!’

Berold hesitated, looked round him, and finally managed to get some words out. ‘You’re looking into this murder?’

Edwin nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then there’s something I need to tell you.’

Edwin’s heart was in his mouth. Was his luck about to change? But the revelation, if there was one, never came. Berold looked over Edwin’s shoulder and seemed to spy something behind him. Abruptly he stopped. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He turned and left at a run.

Martin looked puzzled. ‘What was all that about?’

Edwin shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’ He too was mystified. What had Berold been about to tell him? And more importantly, why had he stopped?

He had no idea how to proceed. This was all going wrong, just because he didn’t know what to do. What he needed was more experience, but how was he going to get any if he didn’t succeed in this? Then it struck him that, of course, he did have an older, wiser head to make use of, if he could but force himself to go there once more. He would. He must.

He stopped and turned back towards the gate, waving Martin to continue on his way as he made to accompany him.

‘You go round and try to find if there’s any other way to get into the inner ward. There shouldn’t be, obviously, but see if there’s the smallest way that anyone else could have got in last night.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to go and visit my father.’

Martin had just finished his inspection of the inner ward when he heard Robert shouting to him.

‘Our lord has asked me to check and clean his armour. Come, spare a few moments to help me and you can tell me about what you’ve been doing.’

Martin was unsure whether he should report straight back to Edwin, but he guessed that Edwin might want to spend a little more uninterrupted time with his father. Besides, he could see that Robert was itching to find out what had been discovered, so he agreed. It was unfair, after all, that the senior squire hadn’t been entrusted with the task, to say nothing of the fact that he was Edwin’s best friend and would clearly like to be helping him in his duty. Martin himself wasn’t sure whether he’d be of any real assistance in the investigation: he would probably just mess things up, and prove a hindrance rather than a help. Still, here was a physical task to which he was well accustomed, and perhaps if he spoke to Robert about the murder, he might be able to come up with some useful suggestions. His mood lightened.

The two of them spread all the equipment out around them in the sunshine. The work ahead of them wasn’t too arduous – Robert, with his usual efficiency, checked the equipment every so often to make sure it wasn’t falling into disrepair – so there would be leisure for talking. As the two of them put all of the mail items into a barrel and rolled them round with vinegar and sand to remove any traces of rust, Martin told of the events of the morning so far, such as they were. Robert listened carefully, and made some choice comments about the behaviour of the dead earl’s brother while they laid all the mail out on cloths on the ground. He started meticulously to clean the remaining grains of sand off the hauberk, the great mail shirt which covered the earl’s body, his arms and hands, and his legs down to the knees, and to check it minutely for any links which might be missing or damaged. The smallest weakness in the hauberk might result in it tearing when struck by lance or sword, causing serious injury or even death to the earl, so the task was an important one. He agreed with Martin that the lack of information provided by the porter wasn’t an auspicious start, but added that he was sure that he and Edwin would soon find out more.

‘But what if –’ Martin started and then stopped again, afraid of what the reaction might be if he disclosed his fears. He desperately wanted to be a knight one day, and surely they didn’t admit to weakness? He put his head down and busied himself cleaning the chausses – mail leggings which would protect the earl from cuts or thrusts while he was on horseback.

Robert seemed content to wait until he was ready to speak again. There was still plenty to do: around them lay several lances, the heads of which would need sharpening; the earl’s great helm, which would be polished until Martin could see his face in it; the shield with its blue and yellow chequered face to be cleaned, and the leather straps on the back to be tested, and then either oiled or replaced; and the earl’s sword and dagger in their scabbards on a fine leather belt. They too would be sharpened and polished.

As they worked, Martin decided that he couldn’t keep the words inside him any longer. Normally he preferred to keep his own counsel and not go jangling about his thoughts all the time like some people, but now it all came out in a rush: his fears about being able to help Edwin, his worries about the effects on the earl if they failed, and also his apprehension concerning the forthcoming campaign. He spilled it all out and then waited in some trepidation for the response. He couldn’t meet Robert’s eye.

‘Look at me.’

Unwillingly, Martin obeyed, waiting for the censure. But he was surprised to see only sympathy. ‘Do you know, you’re so much bigger than me that I often forget that you’re younger. I’m nervous too, you know, so it must be just as bad for you.’ He shrugged. ‘There is not much I can say on the subject of the murder, and as for the campaign, well, I’ve never taken part in one either, or at least not a proper one.’

Martin wasn’t fully reassured, but at least he wasn’t the only one who was scared.

Robert was continuing, telling him not to belittle his own abilities, but he let most of it wash over him, his relief growing stronger. Then they fell quiet, a companionable silence they had often shared.

They continued with their work. Martin had just finished polishing the earl’s helm and Robert was applying a final coat of oil to the sword, when Sir Geoffrey appeared. Robert made as if to rise, but the knight gestured for them both to continue with their task while he looked closely at the rest of the equipment, shooting off some brisk questions.

‘The hauberk?’

‘I can’t find a blemish in it, Sir Geoffrey, nor a loose rivet.’ Robert had inspected it in the tiniest detail, but all the links appeared to be intact and in good condition – perhaps not surprising, as the hauberk was such an expensive and valuable item that it was looked after very carefully.

The knight grunted his agreement. ‘The shield?’

‘The guige is fine, Sir Geoffrey,’ Martin gestured at the long strap which would hold the shield around the earl’s neck when it wasn’t in use, ‘but one of the enarmes needs replacing.’ He had already removed the largest of the three loops through which the earl would put his arm when holding the shield, and had put the shield aside for the armourer’s attention.

‘Good.’

Sir Geoffrey himself was now pausing awkwardly, and Martin looked at him in surprise, for it was rare indeed for the knight to be so discomfited. He was wondering how to react when a sudden scream pierced the sunlit morning, making his heart miss a beat. Before he could even think about reacting, Sir Geoffrey had drawn his sword; he jerked his head at the squires even as he turned to run. ‘Down in the outer ward. Come!’

The cottage was dark after the brightness of the day, and Edwin had to blink and adjust his eyesight before he continued into the room. His mother came forward, clearly concerned, asking why he had been called away so suddenly by Robert that morning. What could he tell her that wouldn’t add to her worries? He decided on a partial truth.

‘Don’t fret, mother, it was just that Sir Geoffrey wanted to ask me to continue acting for father while he is ill. There are a few things I need to ask him about, though – is he awake?’

Her reply was cut off by a voice from the bedchamber. ‘Of course I am awake – and do not speak of me as though I was …’ it was cut off by a fit of coughing. His mother looked worried again, but Edwin touched her arm to indicate that he would see to it, gritted his teeth and went through to the bedchamber.

He was shocked at what he saw: his father was lying in the bed as he expected, but the coughs were racking his wasted body so much that they shook him from his head to his feet, and he was doubled over in pain. Edwin hastened to support him, putting one arm around his shoulders to hold him until the coughs subsided. The old man wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and Edwin was chilled to see smears of red on the cloth. Dear Lord.

‘Father …’

His father held up one hand to forestall him, putting a finger to his lips and gasping as he fought for breath in order to speak. After a few moments he managed a hoarse whisper. ‘I have been trying to keep this from your mother, so as to lessen her worry, although she is bound to find out soon. But you will not tell her, do you understand?’ Edwin nodded as the hand on his arm gripped more tightly. The rasping continued. ‘I am not long for this world, but I will give her another few days of peace before she has to become a widow.’ The effort of speaking had left him weak again, and he fell back on to his pillow, exhausted, to close his eyes. Edwin did not try to comfort him – or himself – with false platitudes about recovering, for all men knew what it meant to cough blood. Time was running out. Suddenly he did not want to burden the sick man with the cares of the morning, so he sat in silence, helplessly holding his father’s hand and looking down at him. The fear became all-consuming again, gnawing, threatening to eat him from the inside out. But what could he do? He must fight to keep it down.