The Sins of the Father: A Medieval Mystery (A Mediaeval Mystery)

by Catherine Hanley

  He recoiled in shock and horror, stifling a scream as he backed away. The face was purple and bloated, and a hideous black tongue protruded from the mouth. The body was stiff and cold, and frozen fingers clutched at the neck, where a thin scar ran across the front, encrusted with dark dried blood. But it was the eyes which horrified Adam the most: wide open and bulging, they were staring ahead with an expression of such dread that it seemed that Ralph de Courteville, Earl of Sheffield, had at the moment of his death seen something so terrifying that the memory of it would stay with him until the end of time.

  Robert was dreaming.

  He was a young boy again, locked in a small room. He was banging at the door and shouting for help, but nobody could hear him. He kept thumping his fists uselessly and calling for someone to let him in. No, wait, that wasn’t right, somehow. Why should he be shouting that? He wanted to get out, not in … he was half-awake and confused. Gradually he returned to the world of the living, but for some reason the banging noise was still going on … at last, the fact permeated his consciousness that the noise was real and was coming from the passageway outside the room. Who in the Lord’s name was causing such a commotion outside the earl’s bedchamber? His lord was also rousing himself, and he indicated that Robert should find out who the owner of the increasingly hysterical voice was. Robert opened the door and as it swung open he had to half-catch a boy, face tear-stained and fists still raised, who fell into the room.

  At first Robert didn’t recognise him, but as he and Martin helped the sobbing figure over to a stool and seated him, he could see that it was one of de Courteville’s squires, the one he’d spoken to yesterday. The boy was shivering, and as white as an altar cloth: his eyes looked huge in the pale face, which was marked by several nasty-looking bruises. The lad was trying to say something, was pointing upwards, but he was completely incoherent. The earl motioned to Simon to fetch wine, and he himself took up a blanket and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders. Simon passed the boy a cup, but his hands were shaking so violently that Martin had to hold it for him and force some of the liquid between his chattering teeth. Martin also had a large purple bruise on the side of his face and a cut by his mouth. What in God’s name had been going on? There was no time to consider that now – he needed to focus on the task in hand. The earl stooped so that his head was on a level with the boy’s, and touched his shoulder before stepping back.

  ‘Now, lad …’ he stopped and turned to Robert. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Adam, my lord, I spoke with him yesterday.’ Robert supported the boy on the stool, afraid he would fall if he let go.

  The earl spoke clearly. ‘Now, Adam, listen to me. Take a deep breath and then tell me, calmly, whatever it is that you are trying to say.’

  The boy obeyed and began to stammer. ‘My lord …’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Tell me.’

  Adam tried again. ‘No, my lord, I meant my lord. The earl. Upstairs. On the roof. I found him.’ He took another deep breath. ‘He’s dead.’

  The earl stared at him without speaking.

  There was a long pause. Everyone was looking at the earl. He shook himself and stood up, reassuming his air of authority.

  ‘Simon, go and fetch Sir Geoffrey.’

  Simon was still staring.

  ‘Now!’

  Startled out of his private thoughts, Simon scurried out the door. The earl turned to his squires: ‘You two, go up to the roof. Check if he really is dead and, if so, bring the body down to the chapel.’ Robert nodded and started to pull on his hose and tunic. ‘And you …’, he looked at Adam, who was gazing blindly in front of him and still very pale, ‘you stay here and finish that wine.’ He started to pace around the room as Robert pulled Martin out of the door and up the stairs.

  Once they reached the roof the body wasn’t difficult to spot. Robert stared down at it in revulsion. He’d seen death before, of course – who hadn’t? – but this was … different. The purple contorted face, the tongue, and those awful, staring eyes. However powerful and feared the man had been in life, there was no dignity in this death. Slowly he bent down and reached out his hand to close the eyes.

  Beside him, Martin suddenly retched. Quickly, Robert stood and spun his friend around.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, if you’re going to be sick, don’t do it on the body!’ He held Martin’s shoulders as the tall squire emptied the contents of his stomach at the side of the path, and then helped him to stand up as he wiped his mouth. ‘Better?’

  Martin nodded. Still shaken, he looked again at the corpse. ‘I suppose we’d better …’ He gestured towards the stairs.

  Robert agreed, grimly practical. ‘I’ll take his head, you take the legs.’ He stooped and put his arms around the body under the armpits, clasping his hands at the front of the dead man’s chest, as Martin picked up the legs. The body was stiff, which made it easier to carry. Gingerly they made their way down the stairs, carefully avoiding any contact between the corpse and the walls lest they damage it even more. The load became heavier as they continued, and both were panting by the time they had struggled down to the chapel. But what to do with the body? They could hardly put it on the altar. Martin suggested that they lay it on the floor while he went to find a board and some trestles. He left, and Robert was alone with the corpse. He looked down at it, having an uneasy feeling that the eyes were still looking at him through the closed lids. Some dignity … something was needed. He rearranged the dead man’s clothing to hide the scar across the neck as best he could, and then looked around him for some sort of covering. Finding an altar cloth – was that blasphemous? He didn’t know, but it was the only thing available so it would have to serve – he knelt down and draped it carefully over the body, taking a few moments to adjust everything properly. Then, satisfied with his handiwork, he rose and left the chapel.

  Sir Geoffrey was dreaming.

  He’d stayed awake long into the night with his old companion Hugh Fitzjohn, drinking and regaling Sir Roger and some of the other knights with tales of their exploits many years before when they’d been young, back in the time when the sun shone more brightly, the air was fresher and knights were bolder. They had reminisced about their campaigns in France fifteen years before, the heroic deeds they’d performed and the acts of chivalry they’d seen. Eventually they’d all drunk too much and fallen into a slumber on the hall floor, but in his sleep Sir Geoffrey dreamt about some of the less gallant aspects of the campaign. War wasn’t about knightly heroics, it was blood and mud and screaming, villages burnt to the ground, and the tear-stained faces of women as they wept over their dead husbands and children. He was back there, was surrounded by the maimed and the dead, they were all rising to stand over him in bloody accusation … in a cold sweat he half-woke to see the ghostly figure of a boy bent over him, and automatically flung his hand up to guard against the attack.

  The boy was shaking his arm. ‘Wake up, Sir Geoffrey!’

  Slowly he came round, mumbling that it wasn’t his fault, that he’d only been following orders …

  The figure was still shaking him. God! But his head felt as though a smith was hammering in it. He struggled to focus and gradually the shape materialised into Simon, still urging him to wake.

  ‘All right, all right! Stop shaking me, boy, I’m awake.’ He sat up with a groan, and cut short Simon’s excited chatter with a wave of his hand. ‘Stop, stop! Get me something to drink, then I will listen to you.’ The boy obliged, and he took a deep draught of some leftover ale, looking at the slumbering figures all around him. His companions of the night before were still fast asleep, but others around the hall were starting to stir in the dawn light. Stiffly he tried to rise to his feet, but his back and joints protested: he was really getting too old to be sleeping on hall floors, not when he had a proper bed in a chamber of his own. Irritably he waved away Simon’s proffered arm – the day he needed someone to help him to his feet would be the day he gave up on life – and stood. Simon was hopping
excitedly from foot to foot, obviously bursting to say something.

  He growled at the boy. ‘All right, what is it? This had better be good.’

  Simon started to talk, but then looked around at the others in the hall, and with a burst of what might even have been tact – the boy really was starting to grow up – he beckoned the knight outside before spilling his news.

  ‘My lord sent me for you, Sir Geoffrey. It’s the visiting earl – he’s dead!’

  The knight struggled to take this in. His head was still pounding. The boy couldn’t possibly have said what he thought he’d heard. ‘What?’

  Simon tried again, speaking more slowly. ‘The visiting earl, Sir Geoffrey. He’s dead. On the roof of the keep. His squire came to tell us and my lord sent me to find you.’

  ‘De Courteville? Dead? You mean, dead?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Geoffrey.’

  ‘Here, on the roof of the keep, dead?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Geoffrey.’

  ‘De Courteville?’

  Simon rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Sir Geoffrey. My lord sent me to fetch you. Perhaps we should hurry.’ Sir Geoffrey felt his arm being tugged, and he allowed the page to lead him towards the keep.

  By the time they reached the main door he’d regained some of his faculties. Could the news possibly be true? Could there have been a mistake? The earl would surely not have sent Simon with such a message if it were not true. He continued up the stairs, past the door to the council chamber and the chapel. There he stopped: Martin and one of the men-at-arms were inside, standing over a board and some trestles which they’d obviously just erected. Next to them on the floor lay the figure of a man, covered with a cloth. Sir Geoffrey stepped inside and looked down at the shrouded body for a long moment, taking in the shape and what he could see of the clothes. It was true, then. He could feel no sympathy for the man: he’d known too much about him to waste his feelings on such a devil. But the Lord only knew what the implications for the earl could be once the regent found out. This was going to spell trouble for them all.

  Martin saw Sir Geoffrey and Simon passing, and left Berold to deal with the body while he strode up the stairs behind them. Robert had already got back to the council chamber and was telling his lord that the news was definitely true; he mentioned the wound on the man’s neck and said that he’d probably had his throat slit. Martin shivered at the thought of the body he’d seen, and tried to control his heaving stomach.

  The earl reacted quickly to the news, sending Robert out immediately to the gate to tell the guards there to let nobody in or out until further notice, and telling the boy Adam, now sufficiently recovered, to wake de Courteville’s brother. The earl’s lip curled in contempt as he mentioned the name, and Martin wondered whether the man who hadn’t been allowed to marry the Lady Isabelle was now an earl in his own right. He took Simon by the shoulder and pulled him over to stand next to him while the earl conferred with Sir Geoffrey. Simon was pale and Martin kept his arm ready in case it should be needed to steady the boy.

  As soon as Robert returned, the earl ordered Simon to shut the door and turned to them all. He looked perfectly in control of himself, and Martin wondered how he’d managed to assume such command so quickly. He supposed it probably came naturally to the high nobility.

  The earl summarised in a few clipped phrases. ‘As we all now know, the earl of Sheffield is dead. He was found early this morning on the roof of the keep. His throat had been cut, so he was almost certainly murdered.’ The others all looked at him, and at each other, in complete silence as he spoke again. ‘This is, of course, going to cause problems with the campaign.’ He took a deep breath and counted off on his fingers. ‘Firstly, the regent is not going to be pleased to find out that one of his most important supporters is dead. Secondly, he may blame me for this, as it happened on my estates when the earl should have been under my protection. And thirdly, let us not forget that we have a large number of the earl’s men encamped around the castle now under the command of a man who is, at best, unstable.’ The earl still seemed in remarkable control, but Sir Geoffrey looked sombre, and Robert and Simon both wore slightly dazed expressions. The earl stopped to pour himself some wine, and slopped it all over his hand.

  He stared at it for a moment, and then put the cup and the jug down carefully before continuing, wiping his hand on the side of his tunic. ‘As far as I can see, the best thing to do would be to find out as soon as possible who has committed this crime, prove that it has nothing to do with us, and present the culprit to the regent for punishment when we muster at Newark.’ It sounded so simple.

  The earl looked at them all one by one. ‘Now, how best to deploy my troops?’ He turned to Sir Geoffrey. ‘You will have to take overall control of this matter. I put it in your charge until it is resolved.’

  Sir Geoffrey didn’t look happy. ‘But my lord, surely I should stay at your side? There is a killer on the loose with who knows what motives, and what if he should try to murder you next? You will need someone to watch your back.’

  The earl paused for a moment before replying. ‘That may be true, but I will stand by my decision. With all the extra people around you will be needed more than ever to keep control of the garrison and the men. I can take care of myself, and besides …’ his gaze swept over Simon and paused briefly on Martin before settling on Robert, ‘I will keep Robert by me to act as my bodyguard, should the need arise.’ He looked directly at his squire. ‘Are you up to the task?’

  Robert seemed struck dumb by emotion, but he nodded fervently.

  There was silence for a moment before Sir Geoffrey raised another query.

  ‘My lord, surely one of the most important features of presenting the culprit to the regent is that it should be seen to be the right culprit? Is there not some danger here that he will think that you have simply ordered me to place the blame on some wretch, and that he will still suspect you?’

  The earl considered. ‘There is something in that. But the sheriff is too far away, and by the time he could get here it will be too late. We must leave for Newark as planned. Besides, he will only want to start talking about taxes again, damn him …’ He paused. ‘No, it will have to be someone who’s already close at hand. Not you then, although you could still remain in de facto charge of the operation. We need someone else to investigate, someone to appear impartial, someone of experience … aha!’ He and Sir Geoffrey both looked up at each other at the same time, the earl snapping his fingers. ‘By law, any crime committed on my estates comes under the jurisdiction of the bailiff, does it not? So he needs to be the one to investigate.’ He folded his arms. ‘Have Godric Weaver fetched here.’ He was turning away when he caught the knight’s gesture. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Godric Weaver is ailing, my lord, and has not performed his duties as bailiff for several months.’

  The earl seemed taken aback. Martin wondered how he could be unaware of the information: Godric Weaver had been the bailiff as long as he could remember, and the absence of the familiar figure bustling around the castle and estates was all too noticeable. His lord sighed. ‘I should remind myself of the advice my father once gave me, to pay attention to the running of my estates and the people who run them, lest I arrive back from a campaign or a visit to court to find financial ruin. I’ll have to make more of an effort. So, who has been standing in for him?’

  ‘His son Edwin, my lord.’

  ‘Edwin?’ The earl screwed up his face. ‘The sandy-haired lad? Is he up to the task?’

  Sir Geoffrey considered the question before answering, slowly. ‘I believe so, my lord. So far he’s been an admirable acting bailiff, and …’ he paused, ‘… and to be honest, my lord, he’s easily the cleverest person in Conisbrough. In fact, he’s almost certainly the cleverest person I have ever met. In addition, I’ve known him since he was a child; he’s loyal to you, and I have faith in him.’ Martin was shocked – he’d never heard such praise issuing from the stern knight. But, thinking about it, it was pro
bably the truth.

  The earl took a long look at the captain of his household. But the knight’s gaze did not waver, and finally the earl nodded. He spoke again. ‘So be it. Summon Edwin Weaver.’

  Edwin was dreaming.

  It was a pleasant dream, although afterwards he could not remember any of the details, only that it had been peaceful and nice and he had felt calm as he slept. It was the first undisturbed night’s sleep he had enjoyed for many a night. It ended when he felt himself being shaken awake by rough hands. Robert was standing over him, whispering urgently as he came around. He struggled to focus, and realised that it was already light – he must have slept for much longer than usual. What was Robert doing here? In the background his mother was hovering, looking worried.

  Edwin finally surfaced from the waves of sleep and became aware of the concern on his friend’s face. ‘Father?’

  Robert whispered again. ‘No, not your father, Edwin, he’s still asleep. I came to get you because the earl wants to see you.’

  That woke him up. His heart lurched. ‘The earl? Me? Why?’

  ‘Because you’re the bailiff, or as good as.’ He saw Robert look round at his mother. ‘There has been … some trouble up at the keep, and the earl wants to see you. Now.’

  Edwin threw off his blanket and scrabbled around for his clothes. The earl wanted to see him. The earl. He put his shirt on the wrong way round. He took it off and put it on again. He’d seen the earl many times in his life before, of course, but only at some distance, as a figure at the high table in the hall or on the back of one of his fine horses. But actually to stand in front of him, to have been especially summoned into his presence, that was something different. He was suddenly acutely aware that his tunic had a rip in the shoulder, and was neither new nor particularly clean, and he brushed ineffectually at his front, looking helplessly at his mother.