by C. B. Hanley
‘I beg your pardon?’ She reddened.
If Matilda did know what was on her mind, she was far too discreet to say anything about it. ‘Would you pass the venison?’
Belatedly Joanna realised that the dishes had been placed on the table, and that she was forgetting her manners. ‘Of course, here.’
After the three of them had helped themselves, and after Thomas had splashed some wine in a cup for her, she dipped a piece of bread in the venison’s rich spiced-wine sauce and chewed thoughtfully, leaving the other two to a discussion on embroidery techniques. She tried very hard to avoid looking towards the middle of the table. Come now, have some respect. He won’t want to see you staring at him like a moonstruck child. Look away. Over there, down towards the rest of the hall.
Something was different from usual. What was it? The men were all there – a little more crowded than normal, but that wasn’t it. The food was on the tables, the ale in cups, everyone ready to eat … but they weren’t eating. One or two of them had spoons or knives at the ready, hovering, but everyone was looking round at everyone else, and there was an uneasy silence. Oh dear Lord. It was because Hamo had been poisoned. She dropped her bread in fright and looked round, about to tell the others to do the same. But everyone at the high table was eating happily, oblivious to the disquiet in the rest of the hall; evidently there was nothing wrong with their food. She picked up her bread again and continued her contemplation of the lower hall. Someone had cracked and started to eat, and now the rest were following suit. Once they all realised that no harm had come to any, the normal buzz of conversation resumed.
The contrast in colours in the hall was quite distinct. Up here, all was bright, the noble party in their Sunday reds and greens, and even some blue on the earl’s sleeves, but down there it was brown and grey, with only the occasional dark russet standing out. There was one other who was noticeable, though – a monk, a Cistercian judging by his white habit. He was sitting towards the bottom of the hall, but she could see him quite clearly as he spoke with the man next to him. He certainly had a good appetite for a monk – he was shovelling the stew off his trencher with gusto. Mind you, so was Father Ignatius at the other end of the high table, so maybe that wasn’t too unusual in a man of the cloth. Did they get much to eat in monasteries? She didn’t know, never having been inside one, but most of them were from good families, weren’t they? So they’d hardly let them starve. When you did see them out and about sometimes they certainly didn’t have that gaunt ravenous look that one associated with labourers, but they didn’t exactly look like beefy warriors either. Although this one did have something of a strange air about him. She was observing him from the side, of course: the high table went across the hall on the dais, but the two long boards for everyone else ran the length of the space. As he raised his head to drink, she was suddenly struck by a resemblance to someone, but she couldn’t think who it might be or where she’d remembered it from. She looked again, but now he’d turned to talk to the man on the other side of him, and the moment was gone.
Deciding that she’d just imagined it, she turned her attention back to the meal in front of her, and the conversation at the table. Sir Roger, who was two places away from her on the other side of William Fitzwilliam – she wasn’t sure how that had happened, who on earth would put Sir Roger, nice though he was but a poor knight, a place nearer to the earl than the earl’s own brother-in-law? – was asking if anyone had heard anything about the death of the marshal. William Fitzwilliam, aware of the slur of his positioning next to the ladies’ companions, whether deliberate or not, had hardly spoken a word during the meal. He was eating fastidiously, careful not to get food lodged in his well-combed beard or down the front of his expensive tunic. As he heard the word ‘murder’ he stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth.
‘Murdered? Here? Who was?’ he sounded only vaguely interested.
‘My lord’s marshal. They found him yesterday morning.’
‘Oh, one of the servants.’ He spoke dismissively and sucked the sauce from the spoon without getting any around his mouth. Sir Roger, who’d already tried to interest his other neighbour, the Lady Maud, in his topic, gave up and smiled at Joanna.
‘Poor old Hamo. Poisoned here in his own office, and nobody cares. May his soul rest in peace anyway.’
Joanna was about to repeat the customary phrase but she was interrupted by an exclamation next to her. William Fitzwilliam, in the act of raising his bowl to his mouth to finish off the sauce, had spilled the lot all down the front of his tunic. Joanna forgot her own thoughts as she hastened to pick up a cloth and help him blot the stain before his clothing was ruined.
By the time she’d finished mopping up the sauce, the minstrel was taking his place in the hall ready to perform another instalment of his story. A hush descended and he began, accompanying himself on the vielle as he had done the previous evening. Joanna listened to it half-heartedly: was this really the best story to choose as the entertainment for a wedding? Surely there was something which involved love: she’d heard that there were all kinds of different poems going around the country, some of which had fair ladies in them, and brave knights seeking their hands. But then again, what did love have to do with marriage? And the few ladies at the high table were the only women in the room – in the castle, in fact – and nobody would think of asking them what they wanted to hear. So a tale of war it was. She wondered if the minstrel might know some of the songs about love, and if so, whether he could be brought into the great chamber to sing to them sometime while the men were out? She would ask when she got the time.
She didn’t really want to listen now, but despite herself she began to be drawn in by the tale. The minstrel’s voice was mesmerising, and she listened with growing horror as Roland and his friend Olivier were lured, unsuspecting, to the ambush which had been set for them. She imagined them: brave, handsome knights sitting tall in their saddles, riding obliviously towards their doom. She remembered Giles, her brother. How had he felt on the morning of his death? Granted, he’d been killed in a tournament accident, not in a battle, but still, he would have put on his armour and mounted his horse in the same cheerful way as the heroes of the poem, never realising that the day would be his last on God’s earth. She hoped Roland and Olivier didn’t have sisters waiting at home for news of them.
As the minstrel acted out a conversation between the two friends – amazing how he managed to put on such different voices for each character – one phrase caught her attention. Rollant est proz e Olivier est sage: Roland is brave and Olivier is wise. Matilda and Rosamund started whispering to each other about which quality they would prefer in a husband. The performance came to a dramatic end, with the French kneeling to receive God’s blessing before the start of the battle, to riotous applause from the hall and a flourishing bow from the minstrel. The men started to file out from the lower tables: normally they wouldn’t have stayed so long at a meal, but they’d all been enraptured, and the earl, in an expansive mood this Sunday, had made no move to dismiss them.
Those at the high table remained a little longer, finishing their flagons of wine. The other companions were still debating – Rosamund putting forward the opinion that bravery was what she wanted, and Matilda arguing for wisdom – and Joanna turned to join them. Wealth or lands earned through bravery wouldn’t last long if not supported by wisdom; but then, a man wouldn’t get the prize of a rich wife or lands in the first place unless he was brave. Nobody would reward a coward. The question was still unresolved among them when Joanna noticed Isabelle making a move to leave. She hastened to assist, wondering if she would ever be given a husband, and what sort of qualities he would have.
As Edwin walked through the village on his way to find the priest, he became aware of a commotion past the furthest houses. As it was the Lord’s day the villagers shouldn’t really be at work in the fields – most of them took the opportunity to work in their own gardens instead – but Father Ignatius knew they were
only trying to do the best for their families, so he often turned a blind eye. A group of men was coming in from the north, but there was something not quite right about it. Firstly, it would be light for a long while yet so it was strange that they should be coming back from the fields; and secondly, there was a lot of angry gesticulating going on. Edwin hurried towards them.
At the centre of the group was a small family whom Edwin recognised as being from one of the village’s more isolated outlying crofts, a few miles on the other side of the river near the Sprotborough road. The woman was heavily pregnant and stumbled along with a small child strapped to her back, and the man had a bloodied bandage about his head. He was carrying an older boy whose arm was clearly broken, hanging at an angle with a rough splint about it. He was pale and whimpering with the pain.
Edwin soon found himself surrounded by the angry mob. Everyone started shouting at him at once, demanding that something be done, and through the cries he made out that the family’s home had been attacked by outlaws.
Looking round, he saw that his mother was nearby, as were many of the other women. She caught his eye and nodded, putting her arm around the exhausted woman and leading her away, still carrying the tot. Cecily was there too, and with her gentle guidance Osmund took the semi-conscious boy to carry him away to her house. Edwin told the injured man – John, yes, that was it – to come with him. There was nothing much the other men could do so he suggested they get back to whatever they had been doing.
This was serious, and he needed to tell Sir Geoffrey about it straight away – Father Ignatius would have to wait. It was bad enough that Brother William had been attacked on the road, but roads were often dangerous places. This raid on a family home was something else and needed to be dealt with.
As they strode up to the castle and asked one of the guards at the gate to find Sir Geoffrey for him, it struck Edwin anew how far he’d come in just a few short weeks. Would the Edwin of half a year, or even a season ago, have dared to march up and give orders in such a way? But now he knew that he was a man to whom Sir Geoffrey would listen, though he doubted he was about to do much for the knight’s foul mood.
Edwin and John continued up to the inner gate and waited. It wasn’t long before Sir Geoffrey arrived, his face still thunderous. He beckoned them into the gatehouse and, looking at John’s bleeding head, bade them sit.
‘So, what has happened?’ He spoke in English, which Edwin had never heard him do before. In fact, thinking about it, he hadn’t even known that the knight had any command of English at all.
John took off his hat and twisted it in his hands. ‘I, sir, I mean – ’ He swallowed and looked at Edwin.
Taking pity on the tongue-tied man, Edwin spoke, also in English. ‘John’s home and family were attacked by outlaws, Sir Geoffrey.’
The knight’s face hardened even further. ‘The same men who set upon Brother William on the road?’
Edwin shrugged. ‘I can’t say for sure, Sir Geoffrey, but it seems likely.’ He turned to John. ‘Can you tell us anything about them?’
John twisted his hat again. ‘There was five of ’em, sir. And they was foreign.’
Sir Geoffrey looked at him sharply. ‘Foreign? How so?’
John lost his voice again at the shock of being directly addressed by a knight. Eventually he managed to mumble, ‘I don’t know, sir. They was talking foreign.’
Edwin encouraged him to continue. ‘So what happened?’
John gulped. ‘I heard ’em outside in the garden. I went out with my cudgel and saw two of ’em – pulling up the leeks, they was. I shouted at ’em to leave, but while I was out there two more came round and went in the house, and another hit me from behind.’ He stopped and swallowed again. ‘I’m sorry sir, I must have blacked out for a moment, being hit on the head and all. I got up and went in the house, and they was all there. They’d knocked my wife and the littl’un on the floor, and one was standing over them with his sword.’
Sir Geoffrey looked up sharply. ‘A sword? Hmm.’ Edwin picked up on the knight’s thoughts. The men that Brother William had fought off had had swords, and he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But of course it would be an unusual thing for any common man to have. Why hadn’t he considered that earlier? But Sir Geoffrey was continuing. ‘And your wife? She was not …’ he struggled to think of the word in English. ‘She was not attacked?’
‘No sir. She be with child, thank the Lord, and near her time, so that must’ve stopped ’em. But she were crying, and they was twisting my lad’s arm to tell ’em if there was bread and meat and any money. I heard … ’ he paused and swallowed hard. ‘I heard his arm snap, my lord, just as I came in the house.’ He was pale, his face twisted in anguish. ‘I was too late to stop ’em, my lord, but I rushed at ’em again. This time one of ’em hit me good and proper, and I don’t know what happened after that. When I came to myself they was all gone, and so was all the bread and the pottage and what flour we had, and what was left of last year’s oats. They took the young pig we was keeping to sell in the autumn, sir, and what will we eat now over the winter? And with the oats gone, how will we live until harvest time? How will I feed my family?’
Edwin’s heart went out to the man. He looked at Sir Geoffrey, who was sitting with folded arms and a grim expression.
The knight spoke. ‘We will deal with this. Conisbrough has been a peaceful place for most of my life, and I will not have this.’ He looked at John. ‘Rest a while in the village, find someone to look at you and your wife and son to see what can be done.’ He turned to Edwin and switched to French, speaking more quickly and easily. ‘Law and order is the bailiff’s duty, but we haven’t appointed a new one yet, and besides, this needs swords, not books and words. I will lead a party out myself and we will catch these malefactors and find out what is going on. See if you can find Martin for me. Tell him to meet me in the armoury, while I assemble some men.’
Somehow he was keeping a lid on his anger, but Edwin could see the rage bubbling underneath. He hoped he wouldn’t be anywhere near when it finally boiled over.
Chapter Six
Martin hurried along to the armoury. When he arrived, there was a press of men outside being issued with weapons. Sir Geoffrey stood among the melee, issuing brief orders. He saw Martin approaching. ‘Edwin has told you what’s going on? Good. Find your gear – you can come with me. It will do you good.’
Martin could barely believe his luck. He shoved his way through the press and into the armoury. It was dark in there, and he tripped over a man who was bending to pick something off the floor. Apologising, he made his way over to the corner where his own equipment was. Once his eyes had adjusted a little more he could see it properly, and he started to lift it down. Damn it, he could do with Adam or Thomas here – he couldn’t put it all on by himself. He grabbed the nearest man and bade him help, shrugging his way into his gambeson even as he spoke, the man helping to pull the thick, heavy garment down over his shoulders so that it hung properly to his knees. Martin felt a little immobile, and briefly considered not putting on the hauberk, but Sir Geoffrey would no doubt chide him if he wasn’t wearing his mail, so he allowed himself to be helped into it. He smelled the metal surrounding him as it was lifted over his head and arms, and he wriggled around to make sure it all fell into the correct position. Lord, but it was heavy – even though it was far too short for him and barely reached to mid-thigh. He needed to practise wearing it more often.
He raised his arms above his head, and his assistant put a belt around his waist and pulled it as tight as he could. Martin felt himself almost jerked off his feet, but once he put his arms down again he could feel the difference – the tight belt took much of the weight of the hauberk. He shrugged his shoulders again and waved his arms to make sure he could move them freely. Good. He picked up the nearest shield and slung it round his neck by the long guige, pushing it around so it hung at his side. He peered at the pile of plain swords which were kept for use by the gar
rison – proper sharp ones, not the blunt things which the squires generally used for practice – and picked out one which looked a little longer than the others. He drew it from the scabbard and hefted it, feeling the balance. What little light came into the room reflected off the blade, and for a moment he imagined himself as the hero Roland with his precious sword Durendal. When he was a knight and got a sword of his own, maybe he’d give it a name, too.
The other man was staring at him. He sheathed the blade again and belted it around him, so the weight rested comfortably on his left hip.
And that was about it – much quicker than arming the earl. There was no point trying to put on a pair of chausses, as he knew from experience that none of them were long enough for him, and he wasn’t entitled to a surcoat of his own, so he merely jammed the padded arming cap on to his head, picked up a helm and tucked it under his arm, and walked back outside, pushing his hands into his mail gloves as he did so and trying not to drop anything.
He could feel his heart thumping even through all the layers of padding and armour. He was going out on a real mission like a real knight. This was his chance – not only to show that he was strong, but also that he could be clever. He remembered the line he’d heard the minstrel speak at dinner – Roland is brave and Olivier is wise. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about modelling himself on Roland: Martin had never heard the poem before, but no doubt it would turn out to be Olivier who was the hero of the piece. Roland would do something brave but stupid, and he’d need to be saved by his more intelligent friend. Well, from now on Martin would aim to be like Olivier, even if it wasn’t in his true nature.