[Mediaeval Mystery 06] - Cast the First Stone

by C. B. Hanley

  ‘Not all that much to do this morning, once we’re cleaned out. Sir Roger’s horse needs getting ready – he’ll want to go out like usual – but not much else. We’re short-handed, like I said, with the lord earl being away, but of course that also means we’re short of mounts, too. There’s just the –’

  Edwin had no desire to get drawn into a detailed conversation about horses. ‘Sir Roger? He’ll go out today?’

  ‘Oh yes, every day. With patrols, as you’ll know, but he also likes to get out on his own as well.’ Arnulf smiled. ‘Taught him to ride, I did, when he were little. And all the others, and the lord earl himself too, as a lad. Fine horseman.’

  ‘Sir Roger?’

  ‘The earl. Well, of course Sir Roger weren’t bad either – always nicely balanced, though Sir Geoffrey had some problems with him at first, what with –’

  He was interrupted by a call from one of his underlings. ‘Anyway, best get on. Let me know if you need me for anything else.’ He clapped Edwin on the back and disappeared inside the stable.

  Edwin made his way up to the inner ward, where the day porter on the gate confirmed everything Arnulf had already said about Ivo, adding the detail that he had seen him return at dusk, but was equally ignorant of where the bailiff had actually been.

  ‘And you didn’t see him go out again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you were on duty until when?’

  ‘This time of year, about an hour after sunset – otherwise Warin’s hours are too long.’

  Edwin didn’t relish having to speak to the night porter, Warin, who was in a permanently foul mood, and he certainly wasn’t about to wake him up in the middle of the morning to ask. He would come back later to find out when Ivo had left again.

  He had already made several notes to himself in his head. If he kept on this way he would be in danger of forgetting something important – he should write it down.

  He was halfway across the ward when he remembered, again, that the steward’s office was no longer there – it had been at the far end of the great hall, and had been demolished along with the rest of it. Many men had expressed regret about the hall, but for Edwin the wrench of losing the office had been even greater; he had spent many hours and days of his youth in there, helping his uncle William Steward with his accounts and inhaling the scent of the expensive spices that were kept locked away under his watchful gaze. The absence of the familiar space had only served to intensify the feeling of disconnect he had felt since returning home.

  There would, in due course, be a new office as part of the rebuilt hall, but for now William was carrying out his duties from a room in the castle’s household quarters, so Edwin turned to make his way there.

  William was sitting at a table with various heaps of parchment and coins stacked in front of him, concentrating, and he didn’t look up. Edwin caught the eye of young Wulfric, the boy who ran messages for him, who was perched on a stool in the corner, and put a finger to his lips, ensuring he could watch his uncle for a few moments before his presence was noticed. William was sweating, despite the cool day and the lack of a fire in the chamber, and a wince of pain escaped him every time he shifted in his seat. The twisted left leg was the legacy of a battle injury from years ago – as was the horrific facial scarring that frightened people when they met him for the first time – and he had limped and trailed it along ever since Edwin could remember. The problem now was that earlier in the year he had fallen down the stairs outside the keep and broken his other leg, meaning he could hardly walk at all; he had been bedridden for weeks. Terrified of ending up an object of pity (or, in his own rather stronger words, a ‘useless cripple’) and of losing his position and his livelihood, he had dragged himself up far too early with the help of a pair of crutches.

  However, even that had offended his sense of dignity, so – against the advice and entreaties of his wife – he had put them aside and started using a single stick, such as anyone might carry. But neither leg was strong enough to compensate for the injury to the other, and he had been in ever-increasing pain during the autumn. He left his house in the village before dawn every day to force himself up the hill, often collapsing in gasping, grey-faced agony as soon as he reached his office, and he stayed there until after dark before struggling home. And through it all he kept the pain stamped down within him, clenched between his teeth, no word of complaint. Nobody except Cecily dared to say anything to his face or to express any sympathy, and Edwin wasn’t about to start now. But if things continued the way they were going, he wasn’t sure William would last another year.

  He took a few steps back and then approached the doorway loudly to make it look as though he’d just arrived, and William looked up. The expression of irritation that had been forming died on his lips. ‘Edwin, come in, lad. I thought for a moment you were another from the kitchen. How much ginger is that man planning to get through, with the lord earl not even in residence?’

  Commenting on William’s long-standing feud with the cook wasn’t a great idea at the best of times, so Edwin made no reply. He pulled up another stool. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  William put down his pen. ‘Ivo? Got himself killed, did he?’

  ‘Yes. Between sunset last night and sunrise this morning. Sir Roger has sent for the sheriff but he wants me to look into it in the meantime.’

  ‘Good. No doubt you’ll sort it all out before he gets here, which will be all to the good.’

  Edwin wished he could share his uncle’s confidence. ‘I’ve got too many things going through my head. Have you got any spare parchment? Old bits that have been scraped will be fine.’

  ‘Over there.’ He managed a smile, rare these days. ‘You can have them if you add up these wine accounts for me.’

  Edwin replied with the old conspiratorial grin and then pulled the lists over. He could never understand how other people just couldn’t see numbers the way he did; the pennies, shillings, marks, gallons and tuns simply lined themselves up in his head and he had written the totals at the bottom of each column almost before William could explain what he needed.

  He handed them back and William glanced at them one by one. ‘I could check all this, I suppose, but there’s not much point – you’ve never been wrong before. Take your parchment, then, and there’s ink there. You can stay here or go somewhere else, as you please, but I’ve men coming in for wages soon, so there will be talking. Wulfric, fetch the first lot in.’

  Edwin briefly considered the peace of working in the keep’s empty council chamber, but he didn’t want to sit up there on his own in the dark just at the moment. He could block out the noise here and remain in the company of the living. He shifted to the second table in the corner, pushed its scattered contents to one side, and set about recording what he already knew.

  It wasn’t much, and there were still men queueing up to receive their coins when he’d finished. He reviewed his rather scratchy penmanship. Ivo had been murdered sometime in the night, by being hit with some kind of smooth, blunt object. He was in his partly built stone house in the village, a place that anyone could enter freely because there was no door. Anyone in Conisbrough could therefore potentially have done it, unless they were verifiably inside the castle walls at that time. Equally, anyone else could have entered the village and done it, for there was no fence or gate. On the contrary, as the village was a fair site and the castle needed provisioning from miles around, the arrival of strangers was not an uncommon occurrence.

  Edwin had personally seen Ivo antagonise the reeve and the master mason, but his performance at the manor court had angered virtually everyone else in the village as well, so that was not much help.

  He sighed. In short, almost anyone could have had reason to do away with the bailiff, and almost anyone could have had the opportunity to carry through with it.

  Was there anyone he could eliminate? He picked up his pen again. Children? Yes. The elderly and infirm? Yes. Well, probably. Women? He hesitated. Maybe.
But some of the goodwives of the village could pack a hefty punch when their husbands were drunk or unruly, so he wouldn’t discount them all straight away.

  He wasn’t getting very far here. He stood and pushed his way out past the line of men; William looked up long enough to give him a brief nod, and Edwin was struck again by the lines of pain etched on his face. Another thing to worry about.

  Once outside, he made his way over to the masons’ work area. He caught Philippe’s eye and beckoned him over.

  The master mason spoke first. ‘A bad business.’

  ‘It is, and I’m trying to work out what happened before the sheriff gets here.’

  ‘A good idea. And this sheriff, he will dispense justice? The penalty here for murder is death?’

  ‘It is. Which is why I want to make sure we have the right man.’

  Philippe nodded. ‘If I can be of any help …’

  ‘It would be useful to know if you or any of your men heard or saw anything. For example, when did you last see Ivo?’

  ‘I, personally? That would be yesterday, around noon. I think I saw you speaking to him at the dining table, and then when I looked some time later he was there alone again, and then he left the ward. I don’t know where he went after that.’

  Edwin nodded. ‘That fits in with what I’ve heard already. Arnulf – the stablemaster – said he rode out yesterday afternoon and then came back before nightfall. I don’t suppose you saw him after that?’

  Philippe shook his head. ‘No. But Denis was down working at his house in the afternoon – he might know more.’ He looked towards the men working under the canopy, and then up at the others on the hall’s wooden scaffolding, where Denis was nowhere to be seen. ‘Hmm. He will be around somewhere.’

  ‘And after dark? You don’t sleep up here in the ward, do you?’

  ‘No, we have our lodgings outside the walls, down between the gardens and the edge of the field. We have our own cooking fires, and it’s only a short walk to the river for water.’

  Edwin’s heart sank. So the whole lot of them had been outside the castle walls – and away from the eye of the night porter – during the night when Ivo was killed. And, of course, Ivo had argued with them frequently.

  ‘I see what you are thinking, my friend. But dealing with difficult clients has always been a part of our work. We discuss, we dispute, we get on with it.’ He added, drily, ‘If we started killing everyone who criticised our work, we would not be in business very long.’

  That did sound reasonable to Edwin, but then again, he had heard reasonable statements from murderers before now, so he was ruling nothing out. There was one thing he should add in the meantime, though. ‘I should warn you. The villagers are scared that the murderer will turn out to be one of them, and talk has already started that it must be an outsider or a foreigner.’

  ‘And we masons are all the former, and some of us are also the latter.’ He stopped suddenly and let out an oath. Edwin wondered at such a reaction, but then realised Philippe was staring over his shoulder. ‘I think your warning comes too late.’

  Denis was approaching from the direction of the gate, dishevelled and with blood streaming down his face from a cut on his temple.

  Edwin exclaimed and ran over to him, followed by a crowd of masons who jostled around, demanding to know what had happened.

  Denis gestured to them to calm down and then spoke to Philippe and Edwin in rapid French. ‘It’s nothing, I’m not hurt. A stone caught me, that’s all.’

  Edwin was horrified. ‘Someone threw a stone at you?’

  ‘Yes. There was a group of them, they were all talking in English so I’m not sure what they were saying. I think I heard “Ivo”. And your word for guerre is “war”, is it not?’

  Philippe looked grimly at Edwin. ‘Outsiders and foreigners. And some of us from a country you have recently been at war with, although that had nothing to do with us. We have been here since before Prince Louis arrived, and anyway, we understood he had been invited.’

  It was more complicated than that, but Edwin didn’t feel that this was the right time to explain it all. ‘I will go down to the village and explain that this behaviour is unacceptable. I’ll get Father Ignatius and Sir Roger to back me up.’

  Denis had now been passed a rag and was wiping the blood from his face. ‘Merci, Edouin.’

  Edwin turned to leave, but Philippe laid a hand on his arm. ‘My thanks also. But I believe that this is only going to get worse. I hope you can find the culprit before more violence is committed.’

  So do I, thought Edwin. So do I.

  Chapter Four

  Alys felt hot tears prick at her eyes as she stared at the back of the door. But she could not – would not – let them fall, however tempting it was to go back in the chamber, throw herself on the bed and sob her heart out. She told herself over and over again, as she made the bed, as she swept the floor, as she tended to the fire, that Edwin meant well, that he was only trying to look after her in the best way that he could. But it still stung that he had not discussed it with her as an equal, that he had simply issued an order as though she were a child. Or a wife.

  The dough had been waiting long enough; she had to get it to the oven. She dashed some cold water on her face, hoping her eyes didn’t look too red, and made sure her hair was covered. She hadn’t yet got used to the wimple of a married woman, finding it restrictive around her face and throat, but the simple headscarf that kept the hair off her face while leaving much of it uncovered was no longer appropriate. She had to leave childish things behind.

  The cold, fresh breeze revived her a little as she stepped out of the house. She carried the tray across the green to the welcoming warmth of the oven, where a group of other women were already assembled. They had been quicker – probably because they hadn’t stopped to argue with their husbands and then do some angry housework to calm down – and they were on the verge of sealing it, but someone saw her coming and they waited.

  Agnes, the priest’s ancient housekeeper who was also the village midwife, and who was therefore respected by all, held the oven door open with a stick. ‘Have you marked your loaves, dearie? Good, good. Just about room for them there.’

  Alys placed her loaves on the flat paddle and used it to manoeuvre the dough inside. Once the door was shut, it was sealed and they all stepped back. The bread would be ready at around noon, and they wouldn’t stay here to wait for it, but the group didn’t disperse as quickly as it normally did.

  There was only one topic of conversation. ‘Fancy him getting himself murdered. Did it just to spite us all, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Alys hovered. She didn’t know any of them well enough to join in or interrupt their conversation, but maybe she could pick up something that might be useful to Edwin – if he would listen to her – and besides, he could hardly claim she was doing anything dangerous by standing around the oven chatting with other women.

  ‘But what will it mean for the oven, now?’ asked one. ‘Will we get to keep this one?’

  Agnes shook her head. ‘You should have worse things to worry about.’

  ‘What could be worse than having to pay to bake bread?’

  ‘Many things. None of you remember some of the things that happened here years ago – oh, it would have been back in the reign of old King Henry. Crimes, houses burned. And some of them Normans hurt or killed.’

  One of the others – Hal’s mother – waved her hand dismissively. ‘That was a long time ago. Nobody cares about that now.’

  Agnes pointed at her. ‘You might not think so. But when lords and nobles get hurt, the rest of them come down hard. The sheriff and his men, the Normans – they come here and they don’t care who did it, they just punish the whole village. A fine that takes all you have. Hangings. Any man they can find, or a whole group of them.’

  She continued, addressing them all now in her wavering tone. ‘You’d better look out for your husbands when the sheriff gets here, and hide your sons
away, because he’ll have them all swinging before you can open your mouths to say anything. And if you try to make a fuss or fight back, he’ll just hang some more.’

  She had their attention. Avice, the carpenter’s daughter, spoke with a shaking voice. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  Agnes’s speech had cost her much energy, and now she looked slumped and old. ‘Pray. Pray that Godric will find out what happened, and pray that someone will listen to him.’

  Hal’s mother rolled her eyes. ‘Godric is dead, Agnes. He died in the spring, remember? All we’ve got now is …’ her eyes fell on Alys and she stopped. ‘Well, anyway, I can’t stand here talking – I’ve got work to do.’

  The group started to disperse, sombre and talking in low voices. Alys stood for a moment and then followed Avice, meaning to speak to her father.

  The carpenter’s workshop was an open-fronted building attached to the side of his house and facing the green. He was in there, chiselling at something with a look of concentration on his face, while one of his sons swept up shavings. The youngest boy, Barty, was sitting on the ground just outside, playing with some odds and ends. It looked quite damp there and Alys resisted the urge to move him somewhere drier.

  Avice walked straight past her father and brothers without even looking at them, and entered the house. She must have a lot to do, with all those siblings and no mother. There were two other girls in the family, but they were among the younger ones, so the brunt of it must fall on her.

  Robin didn’t look up from his work, so Alys waited, worried that if she disturbed him he might make a mistake with what he was doing. After a short while the boy doing the sweeping, with fewer scruples, called to him. ‘Father! Customer here.’

  ‘What?’ He looked up from his close work and took a moment to focus on Alys before speaking rather quickly. ‘Oh. Good day. What can I do for you? Got some new bowls here that the lads have just finished, if you need any?’ He gestured to a stack.

  ‘Thank you, no. I came to ask you about building a loom inside our house.’