Whited Sepulchres

by C. B. Hanley

  Edwin sighed. How was he going to explain to the earl that he just couldn’t do it this time? He would need to talk to the priest again, and soon, but he couldn’t go chasing him down the road now, not when he was on a mission to visit the sick. He’d have to try and find out more from another source in the meantime – maybe William would know something? The Lord knew he didn’t want a repeat of his uncle’s earlier hysterics, but he was at something of a dead end, and other than the cook, William was probably the man who’d worked most closely with Hamo. With feelings of foreboding, he set off. At least he would be able to sit in the shade and get a drink from his aunt.

  He wasn’t far away from his uncle’s house when he heard a woman screaming. He started to run, hurdling the low gate, sprinting across the garden and bursting through the open doorway before skidding to a breathless halt. Inside there was darkness, and his aunt standing there, looking at him in some surprise.

  ‘Edwin? What is it?’ Another soul-curdling shriek came from the direction of the bedchamber and Edwin pointed, unable to speak until he got his breath back.

  Cecily rolled her eyes. ‘Men!’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s just Joan, John’s wife who came to the village today. The walk must have brought on her labour pains. She started an hour or so ago. From what she says it sounds a bit early, but not too much, so with the Lord’s grace everything will be well.’

  Another scream, followed by sobbing and panting. Edwin thought he could make out the words ‘Holy Mother of God, help me’, but it was difficult to tell.

  Cecily patted his arm again, moved away and bent to open the kist which stood against the far wall. She looked calm, but she fumbled the lid and dropped it with a bang before picking it up properly again. ‘Why don’t you leave us to it? Godleva’s taken the little one, and William had a boy help drag him over to Robin the carpenter’s place earlier so he didn’t have to listen to it. If you see him you can tell him not to come back until later.’ Her voice wasn’t as steady as usual. She stood and faced him, a clean cloth in her hands. ‘And it might also be better if you take young John along with you.’

  She pointed into the corner and Edwin noticed for the first time that the boy was curled up on a blanket in the corner of the room. Huge dark eyes stared out of his pale face, and he flinched as the sounds from the other room intensified again. His injured arm was freshly splinted and he couldn’t move it, but he was pressing the other hand over one ear, and trying to cover the other by pushing his head down into his shoulder as another piteous cry sounded from the bedchamber.

  Edwin moved forward with speed. ‘Of course. Come on now – John, was it?’ He tried to sound cheerful as he helped the boy to his feet, putting one arm around him and taking most of his weight as he led him out into the bright daylight. ‘Your mother will be fine, I’m sure – women do these things all the time.’ But Edwin had heard women crying out with birthing pangs plenty of times before, and they hadn’t sounded anything like that. As they left the house, he was glad to see Agnes, the widow who kept house for Father Ignatius and who was also the village midwife, arriving. She would sort it all out. It would be fine.

  Edwin staggered a little as the boy overbalanced on to him. They wouldn’t be able to go far, but he had to get him away from those terrible screams. Perhaps the best thing they could do would be to go to the church and pray for the safety of the mother and the baby which would soon arrive before its time. He took a surer grip on young John’s tunic and led him away.

  Joanna tripped over the hem of her skirt as she ascended the stairs which led to the keep. Really, these garments weren’t made for such activity. Still, discomfort was the price to be paid for elegance; this was one of her favourite gowns, with an embroidered hem and decorative buttons on the sleeves, second only to the one she would wear for Isabelle’s wedding later in the week. Once she was inside the building she crouched to examine the hem to make sure she hadn’t put her foot through it, but it seemed to be intact. Thank the Lord for that. Looking around her to check that nobody was watching, she carefully scooped up an armful of the fabric to hold it up out of the way of her feet and ankles as she started up the staircase which wound its way around the inside of the keep.

  This part of the way was familiar; she went to the chapel every Sunday to hear Father Ignatius say Mass, so she knew her way there. As she drew near to it, she was surprised to hear a voice from inside the room. Surely nobody would be in there now, so many hours after the service? Neither the lord earl nor his sister were overly devout. Ah, but perhaps it was the new monk, whom she’d seen entering the keep earlier.

  She hesitated as she neared the doorway, then stopped and peered round into the chapel. It wasn’t the monk, nor yet the priest: it was William Fitzwilliam, on his knees before the altar, hands clasped, muttering fervently to himself. She couldn’t make out any of his actual words, but he appeared in deep distress. What should she do? She couldn’t stand here in silence, for she had an errand to run; but she didn’t want to disturb him or to have him think that she had been spying on him in any way. She tiptoed past the doorway as quietly as she could and breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t noticed her.

  She’d never been past the chapel in the keep, for the rest of it was a very masculine domain: the earl’s council chamber on this floor, and then his bedchamber on the floor above and the roof above that. But there was no way of getting lost: the door to the council chamber was just here, easily visible. She stopped, unsure of herself now. But Isabelle had sent her, so she had to go on; she let her skirts fall, made sure they were adjusted correctly so that her feet couldn’t be seen, and knocked softly.

  To be honest, she wouldn’t have minded much if there had been no reply: she could have gone back to Isabelle and told her truthfully that she hadn’t been admitted. But the low hum of voices stopped and the door opened to reveal Adam. Behind him, the earl looked slightly surprised to see her, but no worse than that, and he gestured to her to enter. She stepped into the room and curtseyed.

  The earl looked to be in a good mood, sitting in a large chair next to a table strewn with pieces of parchment, with Sir Gilbert facing him, both with goblets of wine. Over to one side of the room, where the light from the single window fell, Brother William sat at a small writing desk, a quill in his hand and ink on his sleeve. He looked from her to the earl, and took the opportunity to put down his pen and flex his fingers. Now she could see him at much closer quarters than she had in the hall earlier she was struck again by his resemblance to someone, but she didn’t have time to wonder who it was, as the earl was waiting for her to speak.

  ‘I – ’ She cleared her throat. ‘I do beg your pardon for interrupting, my lord, but my Lady Isabelle sent me.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that would be the case. And what does my sister send you for?’

  Thank goodness he didn’t look angry. ‘Er, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, she was wondering if Sir Gilbert will be joining her, as she said he’d said he was going to walk with her in the garden after dinner.’ And what cheek of her to mention it – no wonder Isabelle had sent her instead of coming herself. One simply didn’t order one’s menfolk around like that, not when they had important matters to attend to. She looked at the floor.

  But Sir Gilbert had given an exclamation and looked out of the window at the afternoon sun. ‘No, you’re right, Joanna, I did say that.’

  The earl laughed. ‘Then get yourself hence, man. We can discuss all this later – I have other matters I can go through with the good brother here, and you’d better attend to your bride. God knows it’s made my life much easier having her so content.’ He waved dismissal, and Sir Gilbert nodded his head and moved towards the door, waiting for Joanna to pass through it first. As they walked past the chapel entrance, Joanna risked a glance inside, but it was empty.

  Edwin didn’t know how long he’d been in the church when he heard the sound of someone else entering. Young John had knelt with him a while but the pain and exhaustion ha
d got too much for him, and he was asleep on the floor. Edwin felt sure there was no sin in this, after what the boy had been through, but he had an excuse half-ready in case the newcomer was Father Ignatius.

  It wasn’t: it was John the elder, who had a weary look as he came and lowered himself stiffly to his knees. He crossed himself and closed his eyes, lips moving in prayer. Edwin waited until he’d finished before speaking. ‘Any news?’

  John shook his head. ‘I went to the cottage and the women said it were all coming along. But it don’t sound right to me – not like the other times, anyway.’

  Edwin said nothing. He hadn’t thought it had sounded right either, but what did he know? He wasn’t a married man, had never sat by and listened to his wife emitting piercing cries of agony and distress as she fought to bring another child into the world. What must it be like? How could anyone bear the pain? What if the woman screaming was … he couldn’t bear even to think her name.

  There was silence for a few moments before John nodded at the shrouded figure lying on a trestle near to the altar. ‘Who’s that?’

  Edwin stood, privately glad of the excuse to straighten his aching knees. ‘It’s Hamo, the lord earl’s marshal. He died last night.’

  John drew in his breath as though he was about to say something, but then he didn’t. Edwin turned to face him. ‘What?’

  John shrugged. ‘Nothing, really. I were just thinking it were an unusual name.’

  Edwin thought for a moment. ‘I … would you look at the body and see if he’s someone you’ve seen before?’ John nodded so Edwin shuffled up to the bier. He hesitated with his hand out before touching the cloth, then pulled it back.

  The face was black and already swelling in the heat. A fly settled on one of the eyelids and Edwin flapped it away, feeling the gorge rising in his throat.

  He looked enquiringly at John, who seemed unmoved. ‘Yes, I seen him before. He’s rode past a few times, sometimes on his own and sometimes with one of them lords.’

  ‘Lord? What lord?’

  John shrugged again, incurious about his betters. ‘I don’t know. A lord in fine clothes. I heard him say “Hamo” once or twice which is why I knew the name.’

  Edwin covered the body up again. They would have to sort out the burial soon, for the corpse would soon putrefy in this heat. But what in the Lord’s name could Hamo have been doing? ‘You live out near the Sprotborough road, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, west of it about half a mile, up a track. Why?’

  Footsteps sounded from the doorway of the church. They both turned to see a black shape, the spectre of death outlined against the evening sun outside. Edwin shivered, and heard John catch his breath beside him. The figure moved forward and he could see that it was Cecily. She hadn’t yet washed herself properly after attending to John’s wife, and there were streaks of blood down both her arms and on her hands. Edwin stared at them, examining the paths they had tracked across her skin, in order to avoid having to look at her face, but he had to do it sometime. He looked up at the dulled eyes, at the deep sadness etched into her features.

  Her words were aimed at John. ‘I’m sorry.’

  John buried his face in his hands.

  Chapter Seven

  Edwin left the church to give John some time alone with his grief. Outside, the glorious sunset mocked him as he slumped to the ground and tried to pray. Dear Lord, please take John’s wife and his dead child into Your kingdom. They did nothing wrong; they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, as sometimes happens. Why do You let common folk be treated this way? Must it always be so?

  He looked up as Cecily’s shadow fell across him. She stood looking down at him for a moment, and then lowered herself to the floor. Edwin could see the tracks of the tears on her face, and he reached out to hold her hand, heedless of the dried blood on it. He’d seen plenty of that recently himself. She gripped hard, and sniffed as she tried to compose herself, breathing deeply.

  ‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’ Her voice was unsteady.

  ‘Tell me.’

  She took a shuddering breath. ‘Not only did she die screaming, but she knew that her son was dead and that he hadn’t been baptised.’

  Edwin felt a cold chill despite the heat of the day. Not baptised? Dear Lord. The guilt crept up from his stomach, reaching for his throat. He’d seen Father Ignatius, had watched him go off to visit Aelfrith’s mother. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he stopped him, chased after him, made him wait? Now the baby would be denied entrance to God’s kingdom, would be left outside the gates for all eternity. And what about …?

  Cecily saw what he was thinking. ‘Joan, bless her, was shriven before it happened. As soon as her pains started around noon we called Father so she could confess, but I let him go – after all, these things normally take hours, even days. We had no reason to guess it would all happen so quickly.’ She could hold back the tears no longer, and gave a long, gasping sob.

  Edwin wasn’t quite sure how to react. His mother’s sister had always been there to offer him comfort when he needed it, had watched over him, and now she was looking to him. He did the only thing he could think of, which was to put his arm around her and wait until she had stopped crying.

  The shaking of her shoulders grew gradually less, and he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Come now. Come, let’s get up and walk, it’ll be better than sitting here too long. And besides, a wash will do you good.’ He helped her to her feet, and supported her as they moved towards the gate of the churchyard.

  As they neared the road through the village, Edwin became aware of the sound of many hooves, and he turned to see Sir Geoffrey at the head of a party of men. Yes, they’d been out in search of the outlaws, hadn’t they. Well, it looked like they’d found them. One of the men had a body lying across the horse in front of him, but there were, thank the Lord, no empty saddles, so the corpse wasn’t one of the castle men. Behind the riders came seven or eight men on foot, their hands bound in front of them, tethered by long ropes held by several guards. As they passed, some of the villagers came out of their houses to see what was going on, and one or two of them spat at the bound outlaws.

  ‘You bastards!’ The voice was high with emotion, and Edwin wasn’t quick enough to catch John as he hurtled past, throwing himself at the group of prisoners, knocking several of them to the ground as he screamed that he would kill them all. At once there was a melee of bodies and of shying horses, ropes becoming entangled around thrashing limbs. Edwin leapt forward to try and restrain John, who was struggling to draw the eating knife at his belt as he was borne down by the press of men. Eventually he managed to grab the enraged man, and together with one of the guards, who had by now dismounted, he pulled John’s arms behind his back and held him still, panting.

  Sir Geoffrey, still on his horse, watched as his men regained order, and then nosed his mount along to where Edwin was standing. He looked grim, and Edwin hastened to explain. ‘He didn’t mean to cause trouble, Sir Geoffrey, I’m sure he didn’t. His wife has just died, and the baby too, so to see them coming past must have been too much. Please, Sir Geoffrey.’

  The knight’s face was stony, but Edwin thought he saw a glimmer of compassion as he looked down at John, weeping and now on his knees, moaning his wife’s name. ‘John, get up, you are forgiven. These men are outside the law, so even had you succeeded in wounding one there would have been no charges. Your actions are understandable, and I promise you they will face justice.’ He turned his horse back towards the castle. ‘Forward, men, and get them all inside the gate.’ He looked back again. ‘Edwin, see that John and his son …’ – Edwin turned to see that the boy had emerged from the church and was standing with Cecily – ‘have somewhere to rest.’

  Edwin’s ‘Yes, Sir Geoffrey’ had hardly left his lips before the men were off again. The guard who had helped him restrain John gripped his shoulder in sympathy and remounted to follow the others. It suddenly struck Edwin that h
e hadn’t seen Martin – surely he would have dismounted to help hold the distraught man? Where was he? He looked at the riders and spotted Martin among them, drooping in his metal hauberk. He was bare-headed and his face was completely white, eyes half-closed; he was swaying in the saddle. He seemed to be using all his strength just to stay on the horse, and he didn’t even look at Edwin as his mount plodded up the hill behind the others.

  Cecily and the boy stepped forward to John’s kneeling form. She looked at Edwin. ‘I don’t know how to comfort him, but I can take him home with me for now. Agnes has been laying out the bodies, and he’ll want to see them. Thank the Lord Sir Geoffrey didn’t rebuke him as well.’

  Edwin felt his own voice coming from far away. ‘I think Sir Geoffrey realised that when you’ve lost something, you want revenge.’ Lord, but he was tired. He thought he’d go home and get some rest; he seemed to have no energy at the moment, and he was starting to ache all over. But he was to get no respite – as he started to put one leaden foot in front of the other he heard urgent footsteps pounding behind him, and a breathless voice. ‘Edwin, Edwin!’

  Edwin turned to see Dickon, the serving man he’d spoken to about Hamo, hurtling towards him. Dickon reached him, skidded to a halt and grabbed Edwin’s arm. ‘You have to come. You have to come right now.’

  Joanna was enjoying the last of the evening sunshine on her face as she followed Isabelle and Sir Gilbert through the main gate, toying idly with the flower she’d picked. They had been out for a walk around the outside of the castle, where there was a sort of pleasure garden on the north side. It wasn’t formally laid out like the one at her cousin’s residence, where they had lived when Isabelle had been married to him, but at least out here they could talk in peace for a while, away from the cramped inner ward and the crowded outer one, and there was something of a meadow which ran down towards the river. She had ambled along behind them, ready in case she was wanted, but mainly keeping a discreet distance and daydreaming. Isabelle had been the beneficiary of a colossal stroke of fortune – imagine falling in love with the very person you were told to marry! How many women did that happen to? She didn’t know, but not many, to be sure. All right, so some of them eventually achieved a kind of contentment, especially if they had a lot of children – well, a lot of sons, anyway – to look out for, but really, the kind of heart-singing, joyful love that poets sang about was either non-existent or aimed catastrophically at the wrong person.