B0078XH7HQ EBOK (35 page)

Robert collapsed utterly, falling back against the wall and sliding down it until he was in a weeping heap on the floor.

The earl looked down upon him, about to pronounce words he could never have imagined saying to his faithful squire. ‘You will hang at first light.’

This jolted Robert from his state. As the earl turned to leave, he reached out and clutched his boot. ‘My lord,’ he whispered.

The earl turned. Surely, surely Robert wasn’t about to make this worse than it already was by pleading for his life, a request that could never be granted. He couldn’t be that far sunk in self-pity. But this was not what Robert wanted to say.

‘My lord, please … not the rope. Please, not that.’ Hoarse, he cleared his throat. ‘My father died in secret, with nobody to mourn him and his line. For his only son to die in shame would further blacken his name, and he doesn’t deserve that. For the love of God, my lord, let me die by the sword. I deserve to die, but in avenging my father, have I not earned death by the blade?’ He looked up, surprised to see that the earl was listening. ‘Please, my lord, please, kill me now. If I have ever been your faithful servant all these years, grant me death by the sword.’

The earl looked down at the young man who had been by his side for many years, and remembered the cheeky page, the spirited squire, the growing responsibility of the man, and above all, the loyalty. His heart melted with pity, but what could he do? The only way to avoid certain destruction was to conduct a very public denouncement and execution. One more murder in a dark cell would do no good, would not stave off the wrath of the regent. The murderer of de Courteville needed to be named and seen to die. Besides, there was no possible way he could bring himself to run Robert through in cold blood. Many things he had done in the name of justice, but this would not be one of them. He looked again at the man before him, and was about to utter the fateful words that would condemn him to a shameful end when an idea came to him. He shouted to the guard outside to fetch the priest.

‘You intend to
what
?’

Sir Geoffrey was outside the cell with Edwin and Martin. He was so shocked that he’d spoken rashly, and he hastened to apologise. ‘Forgive me, my lord, for speaking so, but is that not an unusual proposition in this sort of case?’

Edwin couldn’t believe what the earl had just said. Trial by combat? He’d heard of it, of course, knew that it was something the nobility did – one more example of using their sword arms instead of their heads, his father had once said – but he’d never seen it happen. There was a question which he longed to ask, but he dared not address the earl, so he stayed silent. Luckily Sir Geoffrey asked it for him.

‘But surely, my lord, he has confessed? Normally combat is only used when both sides disagree on something.’

The earl replied. ‘We know that, but nobody else does. As long as we say nothing,’ his glance swept all three of them, ‘nobody will know any better. I can explain it to the regent in confidence when I see him. Robert,’ he jerked his head back at the door, ‘is confessing to the priest as we speak, so that he may be shriven before he dies, but that confession is between himself, Father Ignatius and God. The good Father is not permitted to divulge anything told to him during the sacrament of confession. So I will accuse him, he will challenge me, we will fight, and he will die.’ The finality of the words were chilling.

Edwin had spotted a potential flaw, and again his thoughts were voiced by Sir Geoffrey. ‘But my lord … erm …’, he pulled at the neck of his tunic, ‘what if he kills
you
?’

The earl seemed taken aback, and paused for a moment before speaking with finality. ‘He won’t. Firstly, God will support me, and secondly, he knows he’s guilty.’ A less spiritual and more practical thought struck him, thinking of the wreck of a man he had left inside, gasping his final agonised confession to the priest. ‘And thirdly, he is in no fit state to fight.’

Sir Geoffrey tried again, hoping to spare his lord the indignity of the public combat. ‘My lord – in such cases as these, when a man is challenged by one so far below him in rank, he may choose a champion to fight on his behalf.’ He drew himself up. ‘My lord, I would …’

The earl cut him off, speaking grimly. ‘No. It is my task, and I will do it. You will need to organise the field of battle.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Fetch my armour and come with me.’

Edwin was gradually stepping back, assuming he had been dismissed, when the earl spoke to him directly. ‘You will have to help Robert. He can’t arm himself –’ he spoke even more bleakly, ‘– and I have but one squire.’

There was nothing Edwin wanted to do less than to step through that door. He’d waited outside while a servant fetched armour and weapons, serviceable but plain items from the castle’s stores – had I counted that set? thought Edwin to himself, in a rare moment of down-to-earth reality – and left them with him. He’d continued to wait until Father Ignatius came out, shaking his head in sorrow but saying nothing. Then there was nothing left to wait for, but still he hesitated. Then he opened the door.

Robert was sitting on the stool, calmer now. Edwin stood in the doorway, framed in torchlight.

‘You can come in. I’ve made my peace with the Lord and am ready to die.’ The hollow voice was not Robert’s, couldn’t be Robert’s, and yet it was. Edwin advanced, bringing some of the equipment in with him, and then went back outside in silence to fetch the rest. Still without speaking, he faced his friend. His friend, whose life was about to end.

He had very little idea of how the armour went on, and his hands were clumsy, but Robert guided him through the procedure, having been used to it since childhood. Eventually he stood there, an alien figure to Edwin’s eyes, enclosed in metal. Even in his grief Edwin had been surprised by just how heavy all the items were, could hardly stand up himself while he was carrying everything, but Robert stood unbowed with the weight draped around him, chausses on his legs, gambeson and hauberk on his body, mittens on his hands, coif on his head, sword belted around his waist. All that remained on the floor were the large shield and the helmet which would cover his face, separating him from his friend for the last time. Mutely Edwin picked it up and held it out to him. Robert paused a moment, finding the courage to speak.

He shook off his mittens, leaving them dangling from the hauberk’s sleeves, and awkwardly removed the ring from around his neck, hauling it out from under his gambeson and holding it out to Edwin.

‘I want you to have it.’

Edwin backed away. ‘I can’t – it’s your father’s ring, your family keepsake.’

‘And much good it will do me when I’m dead and in the ground. I’m the last of my line, there’s nobody to wear it.’

‘But still … your father’s ring …’

‘Edwin.’ Robert held it out to him again. ‘Don’t argue with me, now of all times. You are the brother I never had, the closest thing I have to a family, and I want you to have it. Keep it safe for me, and … remember me when I’m gone.’

How could he argue further? He held his hand out and Robert gave him the ring. Edwin held it up by the leather, watching the ring turn. A thought struck him. ‘Do you know, I’ve often seen this around your neck, but for some reason I always assumed it was some kind of gift from Mistress Joanna.’

Robert was taken aback. Then he laughed, and for a moment a final flash of his old self shone through the darkness. ‘Joanna? Oh no, my friend. Not me. You must look elsewhere for the man who has taken her heart.’

Edwin was about to reply when he heard the sound of tramping footsteps outside. Robert looked at him once more, serious again. ‘And now, my friend, my brother, the time has come. Help me on with this so that I might go out and meet my fate.’

He put the mittens back on as Edwin raised the helmet, his hands shaking. They were trembling so much that he could barely fit it on to Robert’s head, and his friend had to guide him, his own hands as steady as a rock. Then his face was gone, and, anonymous, he manoeuvred the shield onto his arm and turned to face the door as it opened.

Outside it was dark, but as Edwin walked he could see a mass of torches down on the tilting ground. A space had been cleared behind the encampment, and it was surrounded by the knights who had mustered and by their men, each carrying a flickering flame. At the four corners of the space stood braziers, casting further light and dancing shadows. The earl stood at one end of the battleground, resplendent in his armour. Facing him across the ground was Robert, and if he was afraid he did not show it.

Edwin knew that he couldn’t watch what was about to happen, and he tried to back away quietly, to find somewhere, anywhere, that was away from this nightmare. But he was stopped by an iron grip on his shoulder, and he turned to look into the face of Sir Geoffrey. The knight looked at him in understanding, but his voice was firm. ‘No, you will stay. If you are to be the earl’s man, you must witness his justice.’

Edwin didn’t understand his meaning, but he was so tired and emotionally bruised that he felt this wasn’t surprising. Once more he tried to calm his breathing, and stood erect between Sir Geoffrey, who schooled his face to show no emotion, and Martin, who looked so sick he was barely able to stand.

Father Ignatius had finished absolving the two combatants, and it was time for the trial to start. The earl stepped forward and proclaimed his challenge, his powerful voice ringing out across the silent space as every man stood unmoving.

‘I, William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, do hereby accuse the squire Robert Fitzhugh of the murder of Ralph de Courteville, and I stand ready to prove it with my body. The Lord will see justice done.’

His voice echoed away, to be replaced by Robert’s. Less powerful, less confident, but steady.

He enunciated his words carefully, so that there should be no misunderstanding. ‘I, Robert fitz Hugh d’Eyncourt, do hereby state that I am innocent of this crime.’ At last, he could be his father’s son. At the mention of the name, gasps could be heard from the older knights around the field, who knew the import of it. A murmur arose as those who didn’t know were told. The earl was on the verge of stepping forward to begin the combat, but Robert hadn’t finished. Taking a deep breath and perhaps realising that he had nothing left to lose, he bellowed once more. ‘Furthermore, I declare that the deceased Ralph de Courteville murdered my father, the knight Hugh d’Eyncourt, fifteen years ago.’

More surprise was evident, as knights and men turned to each other, but there was no time for conversation. Edwin forced himself to stay upright and face forward. The flickering torches made everything seem strange and unreal as the two men moved close to one another and began circling. Beside him, he heard Martin give a stifled sob.