by C. B. Hanley
Ivo looked at him but did not speak or stop eating, chopping his meat into fastidiously small pieces before popping each one in his mouth without spilling any sauce.
There was no point prevaricating. ‘About today’s manor court.’
The long, thin fingers stopped. Knife and spoon were placed on the table with precision.
‘It’s just … I wondered if you’d really thought through your proposals before you announced them.’
‘And you think this is your business because … ?’
It was going to be that sort of conversation. Fine, if that was the way he wanted it. Today’s Edwin was not the Edwin of a year ago. ‘Because I work for the lord earl, I am his man, a member of his household, and I care that matters here run smoothly while he’s away.’
Several of the nearest soldiers stopped what they were doing and turned round to look at him. Surprised at his tone, no doubt, particularly if they had been here throughout the spring and summer rather than on campaign, and hadn’t seen him for a while.
Ivo’s eyes were cold. ‘And I am the bailiff on these estates. Responsible for law and order, raising revenue and reporting to the lord earl.’
‘So it would seem that we both want the same thing.’
‘I’m not sure that we do.’
Edwin felt the first stirrings of irritation. ‘Explain that, please.’
Ivo dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘I want to serve the earl. You seem to want to harm his interests by undermining my authority.’
‘Harm his interests?’ Edwin was incredulous. After he’d spent the last half a year risking his life over and over again in the earl’s service?
The men had finished their dinner. Most had drifted away but those closest were in no hurry to leave. Edwin tried to push down his anger. ‘That’s not true and you know it. My lord’s interest is best served by having well-fed labourers who can go about their work in peace.’
‘No. My lord’s interest is best served by everyone – everyone – recognising his authority in the person of his bailiff.’
‘Not if the bailiff isn’t doing his job properly.’ Edwin’s tone surprised even himself. Getting heated rarely helps the situation, said his father’s long-ago voice in his head. But people’s livelihoods were going to be at stake, and besides, it was too late to take the words back.
Ivo almost spluttered. ‘How dare you!’
The sergeant-at-arms was calling the last of his men away, and they got up with reluctance. Edwin and Ivo were alone at the table under the canvas roof, the wind swirling around them. He tried to keep his voice low, not entirely successfully. ‘I dare because I know what the work entails,’ he hissed, ‘and I know that the estate has been run well these thirty years, and I don’t want my father’s life’s work destroyed!’
‘Oh, your father. Yes, I hear about your sainted father wherever I go. It seems to me that he was lucky to retain his position if he was as lax as he seems to have been.’
Edwin felt the rage rise. He needed to leave, needed to get away, before he really lost his temper. That wouldn’t help anyone. He stood, almost tripping in his hurry.
But Ivo wasn’t finished. ‘And you, “knowing what the job entails” – you want it back, do you? You want to step into my shoes? Well, you’re not going to!’ He banged his hand down on the table, not noticing that some of the utensils were rather nearer the edge than he had thought. He bent to retrieve his cup from the ground. His knife had landed by Edwin’s foot, and Edwin couldn’t help but pick it up and hand it back.
He pointed a finger in Ivo’s face. ‘We will speak more, but let me tell you, if you ever insult my father again –’ He forced himself to move away. Furious both with Ivo and with his own inability to make any progress, he pushed past the group of surprised men forming up outside the armoury and made his way up the steps that led to the walk around the top of the inner ward’s stone walls. He paced up and down for a while and then sat down in what had always been his favourite embrasure to try to calm himself.
It was more peaceful up here, the sounds and smells of tightly packed humanity and animals lost in the clean, cold air. He took deep breaths and looked out over the village. It was going to be one of those days where it never got completely light, but now at noon he had the best of it. He could see the men at work in the fields, although rather more of them than usual seemed to be collected in unmoving knots. And in the distance he could make out Alys, passing the great oak at the edge of the village and crossing the bridge to walk along the opposite side of the river towards the mill. There was no point in waving; she was facing away from him. Now she was on the far bank and starting to pick her way along the muddy path. She had her shawl drawn tightly about her, but hopefully the walk of half a mile or so would warm her up. She passed into a clump of trees and he lost sight of her, but they would be together again later – and there would be fresh bread to look forward to at home this evening or tomorrow morning, depending on when she could get her turn in the village oven.
Oven. Yes. Reluctantly he turned his mind back to the question that needed addressing. Now that he had provoked Ivo, there was little chance that a polite request to view the relevant documents would be successful, so what was he to do? And he had a nasty feeling that the antagonistic situation between bailiff and villagers was going to be a long-term one; there was no reason to suppose that Ivo would be replaced or that his appointment was anything other than lifelong.
The water was high and fast-flowing as Alys crossed the bridge. They would all do well to fetch their flour before it got any worse; as well as the rain itself there would no doubt be much water draining off the fields into the river, and the bridge might soon be impassable. The path on the other side was muddy, and once more she felt a pang of loss for Lincoln’s cobbled streets.
As Alys neared the mill, she met a group of wives coming back – they must have set off straight after the court, while she had been at home talking. They were burdened with their flour so she stood to one side of the path to let them pass, receiving nothing more than a look of suspicion in return. She sighed and supposed it was natural that those who had lived here all their lives should be wary of a newcomer. It wasn’t like the city, where merchants, travellers and pilgrims came and went constantly; these people had their ways and didn’t like them to be upset. But hopefully they would grow used to her as time went on. She resolved to be polite and pleasant to all to speed the process.
She heard a rhythmic banging before she saw the source of the sound; the carpenter’s eldest son was sitting on the mill’s roof mending some shingles, with one of his younger brothers passing things to him from a point halfway up a ladder.
Alys dredged through the many names she had learned in the last few months. Robin the carpenter was a widower, his wife having died in giving birth to their youngest, Barty, five years ago. His eldest was also called Robin, generally known as Young Robin even though he was a grown man. Then there was an unmarried sister, Avice, who kept house; but between them and Barty there was a crowd of nine or ten others whom Alys had not yet succeeded in telling apart, not helped by the fact that at least three of the middle boys all appeared to be called Bert.
However, she was confident in Young Robin’s name so she began her new resolution by calling out a greeting to him. He had several nails in his mouth but nodded, while the younger boy stared.
Her business was soon completed, the fee for the milling paid at the door, and she was handed her sack of flour. She checked it over, having been warned early on by Mistress Anne about possible sharp practice, but it was her own with the mark in the corner, it was full and the weight felt about right.
The miller had already disappeared back inside as she lifted the sack a little awkwardly. She had forgotten to bring a spare one: a half-full sack in each hand was much easier to carry than one full one that overbalanced her.
‘Hold on there.’ Young Robin was sliding down the roof towards the top of the ladder. ‘Out the w
ay, Bert.’ He landed with a thump and strode over to her. ‘You can’t carry it like that, you’ll hurt yourself.’
Alys stood back as he took the sack. ‘Turn round.’ He hefted the weight easily and then settled it sideways across her shoulders, pushing two corners forward. ‘Now put your hands up and take these.’ She grasped one in each hand and was surprised to find how much lighter the flour seemed.
He still had hold of her, making sure she was balanced. ‘All right?’
Alys bent her knees, straightened them and took an experimental step. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
His hands were still at the top of her arms, gripping them firmly. ‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’ As well as she could under the weight, she gave a slight shrug to indicate that he could now let go, which he did after a pause that was a little longer than she was comfortable with. He stepped away and she set off, aware that he had not climbed back up the ladder but was watching her as she walked.
Once she had rounded the corner and heard the banging noise starting up again, any remaining uneasiness faded. He had only been trying to help. She would get home, and then the afternoon would be spent in making dough and in baking. Edwin would be pleased when he returned, for he loved fresh bread, and she might even use the small packet of cinnamon she had managed to source from the last travelling fair.
A delicious smell assailed Edwin’s nostrils as he made his way through the darkened garden and opened the door, letting the bright firelight spill out on to the path. But it wasn’t bread; it was meat.
Alys was stirring the pot over the fire. ‘It was our turn at the slaughter today, so I’ve started the smoking’ – she pointed up at the new hams hanging from the rafters – ‘and there’s some to eat fresh.’ She gestured towards the window. ‘There will probably be chicken in the next few days, too – one of the older hens stopped laying well before the others this year, so she’s next for the pot.’
Edwin washed his hands and sat in his chair as she placed a bowl and plate down in front of him. ‘The bread is old, but it will be fine if you dip it. I couldn’t get to the oven today but it won’t do the dough any harm to stay overnight.’
The pottage, with the pork to flavour the leeks and barley, was delicious. Edwin savoured it while he watched Hal gulping his down. He felt a momentary pang of sadness as he remembered other boys in other places who had enjoyed a similar healthy appetite, all cold in their graves now, and a shiver passed over him despite the warmth of the fire.
Hal finished his before Edwin had barely started, and looked sorrowfully at the empty bowl. Edwin smiled. ‘Might he have some more, do you think?’ He had a sudden urge to look after the boy while he could.
Alys, who had younger brothers of her own, seemed to understand. She ladled out some more and put it in front of Hal, who could hardly believe his luck. ‘Eat up, now, or you’ll never grow up strong like your brother.’
Edwin suppressed a laugh. Ned reminded him of nothing so much as an ox, and the chances of his wiry, lively brother ever resembling him were remote, to say the least. He watched as the boy finished his second portion, finally slowing down as he wiped a last piece of bread around his bowl. Then he sat back with a belch. He looked tired: after the excitement of sitting on his first jury that morning he had spent the whole day in the fields, and the earth was wet and heavy at this time of year.
‘Off you go, then. There’s still enough firelight about the place for you to see your way home.’
Hal stood, swaying a little. Those cold and tired muscles had warmed into comfort with the food and the fire, and he looked dead on his feet.
‘Go on now, before your mother worries. She’ll have a fire of her own, and you can lie down to sleep.’
Hal nodded and reached the door. He turned with his hand on the latch. ‘Thank you, Mistress. I’ll see you at dawn.’
Edwin knew it wasn’t the way to get the most work out of labourers, not when you were paying them, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Leave it until a little after dawn tomorrow.’ He was rewarded by a weary smile and a draught of cold air as the door opened and closed.
The evening passed pleasantly, and soon he was drifting off to sleep with Alys in his arms.
He was woken with a jolt by shouts and cries from outside, and then someone started hammering on the door so hard that he thought it might break.
Chapter Three
‘All right, all right – I’m coming!’
A rush of cold, damp air hit Edwin as he scrambled out of bed. Alys was by now also awake, looking alarmed. Her hair tumbled about her as she sat up. ‘Edwin? What …?’
‘I’ll go and see. Stay there.’
The thumping was still going on, but the high voice was one he recognised. As Edwin opened the door, Hal half-fell on to him. It was indeed past dawn – it appeared they had all slept in – but there was really no need for the boy to behave like this. He opened his mouth to chastise him, but then saw the look on his face. ‘Hal? What’s the matter?’
A hand grasped at his shirt. ‘It’s Ivo, Master Edwin.’
Edwin’s irritation at being woken increased. ‘What’s he done now?’ He brushed aside his own question. ‘Never mind. Just give me a moment to put something on.’ He stamped back into the bedchamber. ‘It’s nothing. Ivo’s done something again and they want me – although who he’s managed to upset this early in the morning I don’t know.’
Alys was now up, and she passed him his hose and tunic. ‘Don’t go out half-dressed, then. I’ll get the fire going and you can tell me and have something to eat when you get back.’
She was so caring. So adorable. He didn’t want to leave his warm cottage, or his loving wife, so suddenly, and certainly not to deal with whatever upset Ivo had caused. His foul mood increased as he walked out of the room while concentrating on fastening his belt, and stubbed his toe painfully on the leg of the table. ‘Honestly, one of these days I’m going to kill that man,’ he grumbled as he hopped over to the bench and sat down. He pulled on his boots and went out.
‘Come, then, what’s he done now?’
Hal looked like he was about to burst with the news. ‘It’s not that, Master Edwin. He’s dead!’
The world started spinning. Edwin paused to suck in great gulps of the morning air. ‘Dead?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Where? How?’
‘Where is in his cottage, but Reeve says the how is for you to say. That’s why he sent me to fetch you.’
They had been directing their steps to Ivo’s unfinished cottage as they spoke, and now they reached it. But what had Ivo been doing here so early in the morning? Surely there were no masons here yet, for they tended to start their day in the castle and then send someone down to the site in the village in the afternoons. Had he come down to inspect it before he started on his other daily duties?
A small crowd had gathered around the doorway, and it parted as Edwin approached, leaving the reeve to greet him. He jerked his thumb. ‘In here.’
Edwin followed him inside the half-covered structure, where there was just enough light to see Ivo lying sprawled on the floor. There was no question that he was dead. Edwin touched the wound on the bailiff’s head and then looked at the blood on his hand. Suddenly his grumble about killing him didn’t seem like quite so much of a joke, and he was glad he hadn’t said it in public. But one thing was for sure: this was going to cause trouble for them all.
He turned to the reeve. ‘Have someone fetch Sir Roger here before we do anything else.’ It wasn’t up to him to be ordering around an elected village official, but he’d assumed a tone of authority without thinking, and the reeve did no more than nod and step outside to issue some instructions to Hal. More people had arrived and were crowded around the doorway, but nobody dared to cross the threshold, so Edwin was alone with the body. He crouched once more to examine it.
It seemed as though he had only been there a few moments when he heard the sound of tramping feet outside; Sir Roger’s voice
ordered the men he’d brought with him to clear the villagers away, and then he entered.
The sight of a dead body was nothing to a knight, and he paused only long enough to cross himself and mutter ‘Requiescat in pace’ before he joined Edwin. ‘Well?’
‘This hasn’t just happened – I’d say he’s been dead several hours at least.’
Sir Roger looked down on the corpse. ‘Agreed. But how?’
‘That’s also fairly straightforward, I think.’ The light had improved further, and he only had to point at the bashed-in right temple and the blood smeared down the side of the face.
Sir Roger knelt and put out a hand to the wound, brushing back a few strands of hair from Ivo’s face. ‘Yes – that would have killed him at one stroke.’ He looked about him. ‘But with what?’
Edwin was surprised to find that he too could examine the corpse without feeling sick. How many deaths by violence had he seen in the last few months? He leaned in closer. ‘I don’t think that’s the mark of a bladed weapon, do you? It looks like he’s been hit with something blunt.’
‘Yes.’ Sir Roger pointed at Ivo’s head. ‘But there’s nothing in the wound to say what, and there’s no weapon here that I can see.’
‘Something smooth, then – not rough like a rock, or bits would have come off it.’ Edwin looked about him: as far as he could tell, all the loose stones on the floor waiting to be used in the building were still in the same position they had been when he’d last visited the house. Besides, they were large, square, heavy pieces – very difficult for one man to pick up, and if Ivo had been hit with one, the wound on his head would have been much worse.
There were a few smaller rocks over in one corner; not squared-off pieces worked by the masons, but rather bits that had been dug out of the ground as the foundations were prepared. He picked one up; it was covered in dirt that flaked off when he scratched it. He looked at the wound again: it was unsoiled. ‘He’s been hit with something smooth, blunt and clean, and by someone else.’