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Edwin was eager to find out more about the campaign, but Robert looked too harassed to ask about it. His own troubles receding, he thought that he should probably try to calm his friend down, then maybe he would get the chance to ask some questions. ‘Well, there seems to be a lull in the arrivals at the moment – why don’t you come with me for a while and tell me the news? We can go up to the wall walk, so you’ll be able to see if anyone else approaches.’ He tried not to plead.

Robert looked around him, still seemingly dazed, and acquiesced. They made their way up to their usual place, and he told Edwin of the plans for the earl to join the regent’s host to fight off the French invaders. He didn’t look too pleased at the prospect, although the telling of it had brightened him slightly, and Edwin was enthralled.

‘Just think of all the places you’ll get to see, all those fine cities. Lincoln, of course,’ – he’d found out that Lincoln was to the south-east and was feeling mightily pleased with his new geographical knowledge – ‘but maybe also York or Winchester, or perhaps even London!’ Caught up in his thoughts of such amazing places, the reality of his situation hit him again. Robert might see these places, but he, Edwin, would not. His place was here, working for the earl’s household, and he would probably never travel further than twenty miles away during the whole of the rest of his life. Unimportant. Insignificant. Even Berold would get to see the places he would not.

Robert spoke. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ He’d brought Robert up here to try and cheer him, but now it was he who needed enlivening. But how could Edwin say he was jealous? Robert had always been his best friend, ever since they were both small boys running around the castle enclosures. So why did the differences seem so important all of a sudden? They never had before. Perhaps it was the thought of war, of glory, of Robert riding off on a fine horse to join the glittering host with its mailed knights and their coloured banners floating in the wind …

‘There is something. Tell me.’

‘I told you, it’s nothing.’

‘Tell me, or I’ll beat you like Sir Geoffrey did the day we both fell in the river. Do you remember that? I could hardly walk for a week.’ Robert grinned.

Of course Edwin remembered. It had been one among many of their childish escapades, albeit one which nearly got both of them killed. But they’d come through it together, just as they’d taken their beatings together. How could he be jealous of Robert? And yet, there was some block between them, as there never had been before.

‘It’s just …’ He stopped and tried again, groping for the right words. ‘I was just thinking about all the things you’ll be able to do with the rest of your life. While I’ll be stuck here, you’ll visit far-off places and see castles and cathedrals, earls and maybe even kings. And meanwhile I’ll be here, organising the village’s work, catching petty thieves, settling disputes over a few yards of land and adding up William Steward’s accounts for him.’

Robert started to say something, and then stopped. He tried again. ‘But look, it’s not all excitement. At least you’ll always have a roof over your head; I might go campaigning with the earl for months in the rain and have to sleep in the mud. Or I might get caught up in a siege and starve, or die of the bloody flux from eating rotten meat. And people do get killed in battles, you know. And maimed or wounded.’ Edwin hadn’t quite thought of it like that. But would he exchange his safe, dull life for one of danger and excitement? He thought he probably would. Honour and glory and a chance to see the world. What would anyone not give for that?

Robert continued. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to be a great man like the earl, am I? I’ll just be one of the knights in his service, so I’ll be back here often to see you. And if I do ever get a manor of my own, you can come and work for me, if your father can spare you. By the way, how is he today?’

A wave of dizziness came over Edwin. Quickly Robert grabbed his arms and changed the subject.

‘But come with me now and we’ll go and look at the encampment.’

Edwin tried to breathe normally. The encampment. Yes, they would go and look at that. Breathe in, breathe out. Good, that’s better. The spots before his eyes receded. He would take his mind off things by going to look at the tents. But no sooner had they started down the steps than another retinue was sighted in the distance, and Robert had to go and attend to his duties, calling over his shoulder that he would try to speak with him later.

Edwin watched his friend hurry off about his important tasks. The dizziness had gone but he still felt discontented. He needed to find something to do: he didn’t want to go to the encampment on his own, but there were plenty of other things he could be getting on with. For a start, he still hadn’t looked at that land dispute … but no, the most important task was to stamp down on this black demon and face his fear. He’d waited long enough. He would do it now. He left the castle and walked into the village.

He became if anything even less happy when he surveyed his parents’ house from the outside. Care of the garden and livestock was woman’s work, and here everything looked well cared-for, thanks to his mother; however, the upkeep of the building was the responsibility of the man of the house, and since … since
it
had happened Edwin had been spending so much time carrying out the bailiff’s duties that he’d had no time to attend to the domestic tasks. The thatch looked thin in a couple of places, and there were one or two crumbling patches of daub, through which the wattle of the inside wall could be seen. Worse, one or two of the precious metal nails which helped to hold the wooden frame of the house in place looked as though they were loose, a fact confirmed when Edwin brushed his shoulder against the doorframe on the way in, and was rewarded with a sharp pain and the sound of his tunic tearing. He sighed. How on earth was he going to find the time or the energy to attend to everything?

The dread hit him like a wall as he stepped inside, stifling him. He felt panic rise within his breast, wanted to scream and run out again, but he forced it down and swallowed it. Look around you calmly, he told himself. This is home; it is where you were born and where you have come back to every day of your life.

There was an appetizing smell in the cottage’s main room, and despite himself he sniffed the air appreciatively, the mouth-watering odour telling him that his mother had a savoury vegetable pottage on the fire. The sense of familiarity helped to reassure him.

The inside of the house seemed very dark after the bright afternoon outside, and he stopped to let his eyes adjust as he called a greeting. As he became accustomed to the gloom he saw that his mother’s hand was evident here as well: a bright fire, spare kindling and wood neatly stacked, the metal pot over the fire and an earthenware crock of milk standing ready in the coolest place, the corner furthest away from the hearth. How did she do it? It was as well that she was coping better than he was, or everything would fall apart.

Mother came over to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘This will be ready in a few moments; I’ll just take a bowl in to your father. How was your day?’ She continued speaking as she returned to the fire and ladled out a bowlful of steaming pottage. ‘Did you find Robert? Your father will be pleased to see him, old gossip that he is.’ Her cheerfulness was brittle.

Edwin stood and took the bowl from her, indicating that he would take it and trying to stop his hand from shaking. ‘I did see him but he was called away – he’s busy with all the arrivals – perhaps he’ll try to come by later, or maybe tomorrow.’ He dropped his voice lest the sharp ears in the bedroom hear. ‘How has he been today?’

His mother’s brave façade dropped for a moment and her eyes filled with tears which she tried to hide, wiping her face with the corner of her apron. ‘Not good. He’s sinking by the day. Even yesterday he could still feed himself but now he seems hardly able to lift his hands.’ Her shoulders shook and Edwin hastily replaced the bowl on the table and moved to comfort her as she crumbled. ‘What am I going to do without him?’

Edwin folded her in his arms – had she become a little thinner recently? – and tried to offer reassurance. He was going to have to try harder to take on the role of the man of the house. He didn’t know what to say, how best to put his feelings into words. ‘I’ll keep this roof over your head, mother, never fear. Even if I don’t succeed in becoming the permanent bailiff I’ll find some work, we won’t starve.’

She nodded sadly and patted his cheek. ‘I know you will, dear. And I’m proud of you, never doubt it. But … your father and I have been married since I was fourteen, and I don’t know what I’ll do without him.’ She smiled wanly through her tears. ‘Losing him will be like losing half of myself, and I don’t like the thought of a long life ahead as a widow, but nor will I want to marry again. But I might well live for years yet.’

She was right: many years younger than Edwin’s father, she was still a fine-looking, healthy woman. He didn’t know what to say, had no words of comfort to offer. But he was saved from trying by a quivering voice issuing from the bedroom.

‘Edwin, is that you?’ This was followed by a cough.

His mother hastily picked up the bowl of pottage again and gave it to him. ‘Here, you’d better take this in before it gets cold.’ He nodded and moved towards the bedroom.

And this was it. This was what he was afraid of. He stopped, the fear and the smell of sickness driving him back. It was in his nostrils, in his throat, forcing him back out. But he would, he
would
overcome it. He stepped inside.

His father was lying in the big wooden bed, looking frail against the pillows which supported him, his face drawn with pain. That it should come to this! Edwin had always been aware that his father was old, comparatively speaking, but he’d always been so hale that it had never mattered. But seeing him now, struck down by illness, unable to rise or even to lift his arms, brought it all home to him. His father was as human as everyone else, and he was going to die. He was going to
die
. There was nothing he could do; he was powerless, so afraid, so fearful of the impending death, of having to live his life without the rock which had always supported him, had always been there during his times of happiness and despair. Gently, Edwin sat on the edge of the bed and started to spoon pottage into his father’s mouth as though he were a child. How he hated this, and how the once-strong man in the bed must detest having to be coddled like an infant. But he continued, and as he did so, he recounted the news. His father’s mind was still as alert as ever, and he enjoyed hearing of the campaign. He took a rasping breath.

‘So, the earl will fight? I thought he would. But Lord William will have to march quickly and send all the troops he can muster in order to prove his loyalty, having changed sides so recently. There will be much coming and going in the next few days, though I may not live to see it.’

The fear flickered again in the corners of Edwin’s mind. He tried to protest, tried to speak in an encouraging tone about recovering to live for many years yet, but it rang hollow in his ears.

His father attempted a derisive snort, which ended in another long cough. He managed to speak again. ‘Do not talk down to me, boy, a man knows when he is dying. I am nearly sixty years old, and that is more than enough for any man. I shall live long enough to set my affairs in order and then I shall pass into God’s grace. But I need to know that your mother will be supported.’ He looked at his son and his face softened. ‘I have faith in you, Edwin. I know you will do well, will be a fine man, a good son and a good husband and father when the time comes. I would have liked to have lived to see my grandchildren, but that is clearly not in the Lord’s plan for me.’ His voice slowed and became drowsy. ‘I am content.’

His head drooped. Edwin looked down at his sleeping father, gently arranged his head more comfortably on the pillows, and moved back into the cottage’s main room. He sat down at the table with his mother and the two of them ate in silence for a while before Edwin stood, squeezed her hand, and left to walk back up to the castle.

He told himself over and over again that he wouldn’t cry in public.

The door to the great chamber crashed back against the wall as Ralph de Courteville strode into the room, bellowing for his squires. He’d been in a continuous ill temper for weeks. Things were not going entirely well for him at the moment, hadn’t been since the death of the old king. Everyone knew that he’d been a particular favourite of John’s, and the other nobles were both jealous of his position and wary of his unsavoury reputation. That hadn’t bothered him as long as John had been alive: safe in the knowledge that he would have the king’s protection, he could alienate all the other earls, and the rest of his family, and it would matter not the slightest bit. He had far surpassed his weak father, becoming an earl, and he was damned if anyone was going to take that away from him. Moreover, he needed to build from there so his son could rise even higher. But he was at his wits’ end. Patronage was everything, but how was he going to get back into royal favour?