Whited Sepulchres

by C. B. Hanley

  Most of the other men were ready and waiting, so once Martin and the last couple of stragglers emerged, they marched down to the stables. Within a short space of time they were all mounted, and Martin felt the excitement rise within him again. He felt proud as he pushed on his helm and took his place behind the knight, sword by his side and lance balanced upright in his right stirrup.

  They rode out of the gate and through the village, the people there moving hastily out of their way and looking on with respect. One or two children even ran after them, cheering. Martin threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest.

  They left the village behind and took the winding road northwards and over the bridge, past the fields and towards the forest. Once they had passed the last cultivated area, the trees became thicker. As they trotted further into the woods they left most of the sunlight behind and only a few bright spears pierced the canopy and made dappled patches on the ground. Martin felt his mail beginning to weigh heavily, and his vision was impaired by the helm, which he also wasn’t used to wearing for long periods. He really needed to practise more.

  Sir Geoffrey had halted and was beckoning to them all. Martin reined in his horse and moved up to make room for another man to come up beside him.

  Sir Geoffrey removed his helm. ‘We’re not far from where they were last seen, and they’ll be on foot, so they can’t be more than a few miles from here. We’ll spread out in groups of three, each group containing a man with a hunting horn. As soon as you locate any of them, sound your horn and the rest of us will come. Try if you can to keep them alive, as I want to find out more about what’s going on, but kill them if you have to rather than letting them escape.’

  Martin wondered why his mail had suddenly become a little tighter, the helm a little closer around his face.

  Around him the men were dividing into small groups. He didn’t have a horn with him so he’d have to find someone who did. He fumbled as he tried to turn around and look for someone, and the tip of his lance caught in a branch. By the time he’d wrestled it free and regained his balance, most of the others were moving off. His horse seemed more difficult to control than it had been earlier.

  Sir Geoffrey moved beside him. He had replaced his helm and was faceless, but the hand which he put on Martin’s arm was reassuring. ‘Never fear. It may seem harsh to you now, but don’t forget, these men have been attacking our lord’s people, and will cause him more trouble if we don’t subdue them quickly. We can’t have that, can we?’

  Martin tried to nod, but the helm wouldn’t allow such a manoeuvre. ‘Yes, Sir Geoffrey.’ He hoped the knight hadn’t heard the slight shake in his voice.

  ‘Good. Think of it as one more step on your path to knighthood, and you’ll be fine. Now, ready your shield and we’ll be off.’ With an ease that Martin envied, Sir Geoffrey withdrew his arm and slipped it through the enarmes of his shield, so he was holding it braced, then flicked his reins back from his right hand to his left, all without overbalancing his lance.

  The two of them were left in the glade with just one other man, a guard whom Martin thought was called Turold, who had a hunting horn hanging from his belt. Sir Geoffrey turned his horse. ‘Come, then.’

  It was hot work, for all the shade provided by the trees. After another hour or so, Martin was drenched in sweat, the gambeson now soaked and clammy beneath his mail. He had to concentrate hard to canter over the uneven ground, while making sure that his upright lance didn’t catch in any more branches, and simultaneously trying to look out for the outlaws despite his limited vision. Every movement in the undergrowth made him jump. All this would have been slightly easier if Sir Geoffrey hadn’t been setting quite such a pace.

  Finally the knight stopped, removing his helm. Martin hastily did the same, relishing the coolness of the air on his face as the sweat poured off him. ‘We’ll rest the horses a few moments.’ Sir Geoffrey took a wineskin from the saddle of his horse – why hadn’t Martin thought of bringing one? He’d try to remember next time – and unstoppered it. After taking a swig he offered it to Martin. Martin drank gratefully, some of the liquid sloshing over his chin. It was watered down and refreshing; he felt revived. He looked around, but Turold was drinking from a skin of his own. He gave the wine back to Sir Geoffrey and remembered just in time not to wipe his mailed hand across his face.

  Sir Geoffrey stowed the skin again, stretched, and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s good to get out from the castle walls properly. Reminds me of – ’

  He was cut off by the sound of a horn coming from a distance, over to the west. His demeanour changed in an instant. ‘Come on!’ He shoved his helm back on, set his spurs to his horse and was off.

  Martin felt his heart hammering as he tried to keep up with Sir Geoffrey. How did such an old man react so fast? But there was no time to think of that now. He raced headlong after the knight, crashing out of the forest and on to the road.

  Within a short time he could hear shouts, and he saw three of the castle men fighting in a ragged engagement against others on foot, straggling between the road and the edge of the forest. There looked to be six outlaws, some with swords and others with cudgels, and the castle men were hard-pressed even though they were mounted. As Martin neared them, one was knocked off his horse, and he fell to the ground with a thud, rolling to get away from the hooves and from the outlaw standing over him with a sword. He couldn’t get up – he was going to be killed! The sword started its descent.

  But it never reached the prone man as Sir Geoffrey thundered forward, lance at the ready, and spitted the assailant like a chicken. Martin tried not to retch as he saw the steel head of the lance burst forth from the man’s back, fountaining blood everywhere. Sir Geoffrey merely dropped the lance, still embedded in the body, and drew his sword. Taking one look at the faceless armed knight, the nearest outlaw dropped his cudgel and grabbed at the reins of the riderless horse, swinging himself into the saddle even as it started to run, and then setting off at a gallop back towards the road. Before Martin could react, Turold was after him, fleet on his own mount.

  Martin didn’t know which way to go. He span his horse around, but knew he wouldn’t be able to catch Turold now. Sir Geoffrey looked to have his own situation under control as he struck down at another outlaw, and then two more castle men appeared from the opposite direction. Outnumbered, three of the remaining outlaws dropped their weapons and raised their hands, but the fourth drew a dagger and hurled it at Sir Geoffrey. Martin shouted a warning, but the knight was ready and flicked it away with his shield as though it had been a fly. However, he and his men were momentarily distracted, and one of the outlaws took his chance and darted past, sprinting towards the woods.

  Martin heard Sir Geoffrey bark his name, but he was already on his way, spurring his horse towards the man as he reached the edge of the woods and disappeared among the trees. Martin plunged into the shadow after him. His horse tensed as it went suddenly from light into dark, and started to pull up; Martin had to kick it on even as he tried to keep his eyes on the quarry, his own vision impaired by the helm. The man was panicking, running as fast as he could and making no attempt to hide. Martin urged his horse forward, but it was difficult on the uneven ground and with the trees so close together. A headlong gallop wasn’t going to do any good. He slowed to a rhythmic canter and brought his lance down level into the couched position, ready to strike the man down.

  He ducked under branches as he rode, watching the man all the while, at one with the drumming of his horse’s hooves. So this was what all that quintain practice had been about! He had it now. He drew closer to the man, who panicked and slipped as he tried to look behind him, shouting something. Martin was catching him; he was only a lance length away. What was he going to do? He couldn’t bear to drive the sharp steel into the running man’s back. As he drew level with the man he swept his lance sideways and knocked him off his feet. But as he tried to halt and turn his mount to stand over the fallen man, he stopped looking where he was going.
A low-hanging branch smacked him squarely in the chest and he was knocked flying off his horse, the world turning over, to land with a thump on the hard ground.

  Everything stopped.

  He was flat on his back, gasping, winded, unable to breathe. He started to panic, unable to get any air into his body. Two other castle men had followed and were now with him, dismounting as the outlaw regained his feet and scrabbled up the nearest tree.

  There was shouting, but Martin couldn’t hear the words through the padding of the helm which had kept his head in one piece. One of the men helped him to manoeuvre it off, and he slowly returned to himself as he felt the air on his face; the stars receded and he tried to inhale shallowly to ease the pain. At least he could breathe. Falling to the ground in heavy armour was a lot harder than doing it in a lightweight gambeson, that was for sure. He felt like he was made of lead. But as he was helped into a sitting position he realised that he hadn’t actually broken anything – at least he didn’t think so, as he was sure the pain would be a lot worse if he had. All that practice at getting knocked down had obviously sunk in, and he must have relaxed as he was supposed to. Thank the Lord he hadn’t got his feet caught in the stirrups. And remarkably his horse hadn’t bolted, either – it was standing a few yards away. One of his companions collected the reins.

  The sound of steady hoofbeats came nearer, and Sir Geoffrey trotted into the glade. He reined in, removed his helm, and looked around. He cast a glance at Martin first of all, and Martin managed to raise a hand. The briefest smile passed the knight’s lips, and he nodded without speaking as he turned to focus on the man in the tree.

  ‘It will be better for you if you come down now.’

  Sir Geoffrey had spoken in English, and the man merely scrambled further up.

  Martin tried to force some words out, but he didn’t have the breath. He inhaled deeply, wincing, and tried again. ‘French,’ he croaked. The knight turned. Martin tried not to wheeze. ‘French, Sir Geoffrey. He was shouting in French.’

  Sir Geoffrey glared up the tree, switched language, and roared. ‘Come down now! If you don’t, I will fetch archers to shoot you down, and dogs to rend your broken carcass. God’s blood, I’ll come up there myself and break your neck!’

  Martin flinched, and the man in the tree looked like he might faint with fright. The branch he was holding trembled.

  Martin thought Sir Geoffrey was going to go completely mad, but he regained some measure of self-control, much to Martin’s relief. ‘If you come down now you will be taken for trial.’

  There was an agonising pause, and then the man started on his way down the tree. When he reached the ground, the guard who had been helping Martin stepped forward and grabbed him, twisting his arms behind his back. He marched him off in the direction of the road.

  Sir Geoffrey stood over Martin and held out his hand. ‘Good work. Now come, it would be better to get back to the castle before dark.’

  Martin took his hand and was hauled upright. There wasn’t a part of him which didn’t hurt.

  Sir Geoffrey thumped him on the back, which didn’t help. ‘Besides, you’re going to be as stiff as a table in a few hours, and probably unable to move for a couple of days after that, so better to get home before it sets in.’

  The other castle man held out the reins of his horse, and Martin grimaced at the thought of mounting. But Sir Geoffrey himself boosted him into the saddle and passed him his lance, so Martin concentrated on staying upright as they walked their horses back towards the road.

  After Martin had run off to join the other men for the patrol, Edwin thought he’d try again to find Father Ignatius; it was late afternoon, which should mean he wasn’t at a service in the church. He took a circuitous route around the village to avoid passing the door of William Steward’s house, in case he insisted on coming too, and found the priest on his knees in the garden outside his home, weeding around his peas and beans. As he saw Edwin approach he stood and dusted off his habit. His face was red and sweat was dripping off him.

  ‘Benedicte, my son. The Lord must have sent you to speak with me, to give me an excuse to sit for a while.’ He shifted a log into the shade of the house’s eaves, and settled his rather portly form on it, sighing. ‘This weather is not made for such as me.’ He tapped his stomach. ‘I shouldn’t really avail myself of our lord’s table so often. More fasting would be good for my soul, but alas, I find the fine food a temptation which is hard to resist.’ He took off his straw hat, revealing a very red-looking tonsured head, and used it to flap at a couple of flies which were circling him. He held the hat up in front of his face to shade his eyes. ‘Well don’t stand there, Edwin – you’re making me look right up into the sun.’

  Edwin dropped gratefully to the ground next to him. Father Ignatius was the only person in the village who wasn’t bone-thin, which he supposed wasn’t too bad in the winter, but it must be difficult for him in this weather. Still, he didn’t have to swamp himself in padding and armour, or labour in the fields, so he probably didn’t suffer much. Edwin himself had thought sometimes about becoming a cleric, but the likes of him wouldn’t be allowed to be a priest or a proper monk: that took money and a good family.

  He realised that Father Ignatius was waiting for him to say something. ‘Sorry, Father, I was distracted for a moment. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Hamo.’

  The priest crossed himself. ‘Requiescat in pace.’ He hesitated. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

  Edwin crossed himself automatically, although it was Hamo’s earthly existence he was concerned with at the moment, not his life in the hereafter. ‘Well, to start with, do you know where he came from? Sir Geoffrey said Reigate, but I don’t know where that is. Is it near here? Could I go there to find out more?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘No. It’s many days’ journey from here, down in the south of the country near one of my lord’s other castles.’

  ‘Oh.’ That spoilt any chance of visiting Hamo’s family home – he’d never get there and back. ‘Do you know anything else about him? He must have been from a noble family?’

  Father Ignatius blew out a long breath. ‘Not noble, no. But knightly, certainly. I think his father was a retainer of the earl.’

  ‘But they must have had land? He didn’t inherit it?’

  ‘N-oo. They will have had some kind of estate, otherwise our lord wouldn’t have taken him into his service. But I don’t know exactly where, or how big. But he wouldn’t have inherited anything, or he probably wouldn’t be the earl’s household marshal. He had several brothers, I believe, although they’re all dead now.’

  Something wasn’t right there. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How do you know his brothers are dead? Everything else you said was “I believe”, or “I think”, or “I don’t know”, but you were quite certain on that point.’

  The priest shifted on his seat, his face even redder. ‘I’m sure I didn’t – I mean, I think – ’

  His confused reaction confirmed it. Edwin put up a hand. ‘Father, please. There’s something you’re not telling me. I need to find out why he died, why someone might have killed him, and to do that I need all the help you can give.’

  Another uncomfortable movement. ‘You know very well I can’t tell you anything the man told me under the seal of confession.’

  ‘Well, no, but – ’

  The priest crossed himself. ‘All I will say, my son, is that things are not always what they seem, and people do surprise you.’ Then he sighed. ‘You of all people should know that.’

  The pain of the last few weeks was suddenly so vivid, so raw, that Edwin felt dizzy. He leaned forward to try and put his head down before he crumpled. Stars appeared before his eyes and he couldn’t breathe.

  He felt a hand on his arm, a voice coming from far away. ‘Edwin? Edwin, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that – I wasn’t thinking about how much it must have affected you.’ The han
d pulled him upright again, but he kept his eyes closed. ‘Come now, say a prayer with me and with the Lord’s grace you’ll feel better.’

  The familiar words of the paternoster did indeed calm him, and Edwin felt his head stop spinning. By the time he said ‘Amen’ he was nearly himself again, and he felt ashamed. But Father Ignatius didn’t seem to mind – his face, still sweaty and red, held only concern. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  The priest smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m here to give you spiritual comfort, my son. Speaking of which, I think I see another duty beckoning.’

  Edwin looked up and saw a man approaching, but as he tried to see who it was he looked directly into the sun and was blinded. The man was almost upon them before he saw it was Aelfrith, a freeman of not much more than his own age who lived on an outlying farm.

  Aelfrith threw himself on his knees before the priest. ‘Father, you have to come quickly. Mother is dying.’

  Edwin knew from his mother and aunt that Aelfrith’s mother pronounced herself to be ‘dying’ about three times a month, so he was sceptical, but Father Ignatius showed only compassion. He took Aelfrith’s hands and urged him to rise. ‘Come, my son, let me fetch a vial of holy water and we will walk together to comfort her.’

  Edwin winced, for it was a full three miles to Aelfrith’s farm, and Father Ignatius would surely melt like butter in the blazing heat of the afternoon, but he said nothing. Conisbrough was lucky to have a priest who did his duty to the poor folk as well as the noble ones. He watched as they disappeared around the corner of the house, and then stood up himself. He’d been a little too quick, for the dizziness came upon him again, and he put out an arm to the wall of the house for a moment to steady himself. Damn it, he still wasn’t any closer to finding out more about Hamo. What had Father Ignatius meant when he said that things weren’t always as they seemed? There was nothing hidden about Hamo – he was just a fussy little man whom nobody liked, albeit a man who had something of a gift for organisation.