Whited Sepulchres

by C. B. Hanley

  Her thoughts turned to Martin and she sighed. She just couldn’t see a way out of the situation they were in. Her heart leapt every time she saw him, and he remained in her mind’s eye even when he wasn’t around, but it was impossible. For a start, no squire was ever married, and it would be a good few years before he became a knight and was maybe awarded a manor of his own. Then there was the difference in station – although he was in the earl’s household, his own family was not among the foremost in the realm, and hers was; admittedly, she was but a lowly distant cousin of the head of the family, but she bore the de Lacy name and she would be expected to form a suitable political union. She supposed she could get away with marrying someone with a lesser name if he happened to be very rich, but that wasn’t likely to happen either. And quite apart from all this, her place was with Isabelle, and once she married Sir Gilbert they would all move to the south coast, and virtually the whole length of the realm would separate them. There might be the odd fleeting glance whenever the lord earl stayed at his castle at Lewes, but he didn’t do that very often, and anyway, how would they ever get to talk to one another? She sighed again, more heavily this time, and realised she’d shredded the flower between her fingers. She threw it aside as they entered the inner ward.

  Isabelle had heard her, and turned. ‘Joanna, whatever is the matter with you today? If you start huffing any more than you already are then you’ll – ’ She was stopped by a gentle touch on her arm from her paramour. He smiled at Joanna in some sympathy, and her heart groaned again at the notion of having a strong, capable and tender man to look after her. Of course, Martin didn’t have that assured grace and authority, but he was younger, he would grow into it, and he did have that deep voice, and the way the muscles in his forearms moved when he reached forward to pick something up from the table …

  There was shouting going on. Mounted men were arriving in numbers in the outer ward, and three of them rode straight up through the inner gate. Sir Gilbert made sure his betrothed was safely out of the way, and then reached to pull Joanna from the path of any possible harm as well. As she stood she looked up at the riders. One was Sir Geoffrey, shoving his helm towards one of the guards who’d appeared in order to take his reins, and dismounting with the ease of a much younger man. One of the others was Martin, and she felt her heart beating a little faster. He was swaying in his saddle, and as she watched Sir Geoffrey and the other man move towards him to help, he fell sideways off the horse and crashed, unmoving, to the floor.

  She heard Isabelle give a little scream beside her. The urge to throw herself forward was almost overwhelming, but she had to resist it, she must, or she would be ruined. She couldn’t show favour like that. Sir Gilbert had moved swiftly, and he and Sir Geoffrey were kneeling next to the prone figure. He came back to them. ‘He’ll be fine, but he’ll need some looking after for a while. They’ll take him to Sir Geoffrey’s chamber.’

  Isabelle started to speak but then stopped and cast a long look at Joanna. Joanna knew she must look terrible, had felt the colour draining out of her cheeks, but she was rooted to the spot and couldn’t open her mouth. And then, blessedly, miraculously, Isabelle was telling her to find cloths and water, herbs and poultices, and to go and tend the stricken squire as was her duty in the household. Could this really be happening? She stammered something which even she didn’t understand, picked up her skirts and ran.

  The heat hit Edwin like a wall as Dickon dragged him into the castle kitchen. It was oppressive, beating him back as sweat started to pour from him – and it was evening. Dear Lord, it must be like hell on earth when the cooking fires were roaring during the heat of the afternoon. Dickon spoke in his ear before melting away. ‘You’re the only one who can stop them.’

  In the centre of the room, Richard Cook and William Steward were squaring up to one another, in the middle of a furious argument. William had his crutches under his arms and was leaning on the kitchen table as he bellowed, ‘… and poison, he said. Poison! Where can that have come from if not from here?’

  Richard, huge, choleric, sweat dripping, loomed with his red face inches from William’s. ‘Don’t you dare slander my name! He was in your office when he died, and …’

  Edwin looked around him. The kitchen staff, wearing only their braies and looking exhausted after their labours since daybreak, were clustered around the walls. Often a fight between two castle men would be an occasion for raucous cheering, with spectators encircling them and egging them on. But this was different; nobody moved. The men were white-faced, and the potential for real violence lay heavy in the stifling air. Edwin edged around so he could place himself between the argument and the row of shining knives laid out on the table.

  The tipping point came. William’s voice was getting hoarse, and it rose in pitch. ‘I’ve never trusted you anyway, you foreigner, coming here and …’

  Richard’s lungs reached full capacity, drowning him out. ‘At least I can do my job! My lord brought me here because I’m the best – not some cripple who can’t count! You only got yours out of pity.’ He raised his hand and poked William in the chest, hard.

  Edwin lunged. Fortunately he was quicker than William, who had to drop one crutch to free his hand, and he managed to throw himself between the two men before the fist connected. He pinioned William’s arms and tried to drag him away, shouting to the men around to help as Richard took a step forward. But not one of them would dare touch their master; Edwin was on his own.

  Richard hesitated and made no move to strike. Edwin spotted the moment of weakness and hissed in a low voice. ‘Richard, for God’s sake, can we move this away from all these men? Haven’t you got a side room or something?’ He stumbled. William was now concentrating more on trying to stay upright than on attacking Richard, and he was heavy.

  ‘No, there isn’t one.’ Richard looked around him. ‘All of you – out! Get some air. You can come back in to sleep when it’s dark.’ As the men started to shuffle out, he bent to pick up William’s crutch, handing it back to him without looking in his face.

  Edwin felt some of the weight lifted, though he still kept his arm round William to help him balance. ‘Can we sit down?’ He scanned the room but there were no chairs or stools – the kitchen men worked standing up at the fires or round the giant table. But against one wall was a low bench, currently holding baskets of trenchers, so he started to move towards that. Richard hefted the baskets out of the way and they all sat, Edwin placing himself between them.

  Dear Lord, but it was hot. Edwin pulled at the neck of his tunic and wiped his sleeve across his forehead, realising too late that he’d been doing that a lot today and that his new tunic was getting filthy. His headache was coming back. If he’d thought quickly enough he could have left the other men in here while he took William and Richard outside, but it was too late now. He looked from one to the other, both silent. These men had always been figures of authority to him, but now they shuffled their feet and looked at the floor. It was up to him.

  ‘Right. Listen. I don’t believe either of you had anything to do with Hamo’s murder. And I don’t think you do either.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Neither of you liked Hamo, but neither of you would kill him. And certainly not by poison. But listen, this is not helping. Our lord has asked me to find out who did this, and it’s difficult enough without you two starting a war.’

  It was all too much. He had to stop or he was going to cry at the hopelessness and frustration of it all. He leaned back against the wall and let his head rest for a moment. Beside him, Richard grunted. ‘All right. And the sooner you find out who did it, the sooner people can stop pointing fingers at us.’

  William nodded. ‘Agreed. But poison – you have to agree the kitchen is the most likely place for it to come from.’

  Edwin looked at Richard in case he was about to get angry again, but he just waved his arm. ‘So you say. But what about when the food is on its way here? And what about other poisons – medi
cines and the like?’

  Edwin sat up again. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But Hamo was eating his meal, not taking medicine for anything, when he died.’

  William spoke again. ‘What was he eating?’

  Richard exhaled. ‘I’ve been over that in my mind, but it was just what everyone else was having: mutton pie, vegetable pottage, and bread. All made in here and all brought out together, though I hear Hamo didn’t sit down at the table with everyone else.’

  Edwin broke in. ‘That’s right – I saw him at the door to the service area. He was checking everything was all right at the high table, what with the guests arriving early, and he must have put his on a tray in William’s office and had it by himself later.’

  Richard nodded. ‘So someone must have poisoned it then. There were so many pies coming out of here, you could never have told which one was for whom. They just get passed out.’

  William thumped a crutch on the floor. ‘So you need to find out who might have gone in there after the meal and before he ate. That can’t be too difficult, surely?’

  Edwin’s head was pounding again. ‘You know what it’s like at mealtimes. There were dozens of people milling around. It would be really difficult to pick out just one man who went in there.’

  ‘Well, whoever he is, he’d better go and hang himself before you find him. I’ve seen what they do to poisoners.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  William opened his mouth to speak again, then shut it and patted Edwin on the shoulder. ‘You probably don’t want to know, lad.’

  Edwin rubbed his sleeve on his face again. ‘Anyway, we’d better get back down to the village before it’s full dark. Come on.’ He stood.

  Richard and William, left on the bench, looked at each other directly for the first time. Richard stood and held out his hand. ‘I’ll help you as far as the gate.’

  Edwin reckoned that was as near as they’d ever get to discussing what they’d said to each other earlier, but it was good enough. William took his hand, heaved himself up, positioned his crutches under his arms and dragged himself along, Richard beside him.

  The cool air was new life to Edwin as they stepped out of the kitchen. He thanked the Lord for the slight breeze and hoped that his head would clear enough for him to be able to think properly once he got back to the cottage. There was no chance of sleep, but the quiet of the night might help him to rest a little.

  The kitchen men who were standing or sitting around made their way back in, although one or two looked as though they might stay outside to sleep, and who could blame them? They reached the inner gate, and Edwin took Richard’s place, ready to throw his arm around William’s waist and grab a handful of his tunic to steady him if necessary. Then they made their slow and halting way towards the outer gate and the road to the village.

  William was starting to flag long before they got there, and Edwin was very glad when they reached the cottage. Cecily came out to help, but William waved her away and dragged himself over the threshold.

  As he watched, something occurred to Edwin. ‘William?’

  It was too much effort for William to turn round again, so he spoke over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You called Richard a foreigner. I thought he’d always been here?’

  ‘Well, he’s been here a good while – since you were born or thereabouts, I reckon. But he’s from one of my lord’s other lands, down south.’ Leaning on his wife, he moved further inside the cottage, so his voice came out of the dark. ‘Reigate, I think.’

  As Edwin walked up to the castle in the bright light of dawn, his head felt like it might become detached from his body. The grogginess, from yet another sleepless night, was adding to the headache, which had now spread down his neck. He was struggling to put one foot in front of the other, never mind think straight. But he was still nowhere in terms of finding Hamo’s killer, and he also wanted to find out if the outlaws had anything to do with it. He didn’t dare approach Sir Geoffrey, but he thought Martin might be able to tell him more about their capture yesterday, as well as appreciating some company.

  He reached Sir Geoffrey’s chamber and walked in, questions already on his lips. But as he entered he saw Joanna sitting close by the side of the bed, her hand laid on Martin’s forehead, and he nearly fell over his feet in his haste to get out of the room again, his face hot. Why hadn’t he thought to knock? But Joanna had risen with speed and was calling him back.

  ‘Edwin, come back. There’s nothing – I mean, I was just checking his injuries to see if he needed a salve on his head. But it’s fine, really. Please come back in.’ She looked flustered and her cheeks were red. He followed her and approached the bed. There was only the one stool in the room, so he gestured to Joanna to sit on it again while he stood and looked down at Martin. The squire was very pale, and he looked as though he was in quite some pain.

  ‘So, how do I look?’

  Lying was a sin. But perhaps honesty could be watered down a bit? ‘You don’t look too bad at all. There’s certainly nothing wrong with your face – you don’t look nearly as terrible as Adam did that time when he got beaten up – and from what I can see of your feet sticking out the end of the bed, you’ve still got both legs. How do you feel?’

  Martin grimaced. ‘Like I’m on fire all over. And like I’m tied to a board. To start with I didn’t think it was so bad – I even got back on the horse and rode back. But as we got nearer I could feel myself stiffening up, and by the time they’d got my armour off and put me here, I couldn’t move. Sir Geoffrey said I’ll be fine in a couple of days, but right now I’m starting to go black and purple all over and I don’t think I could get out of this bed if it was on fire.’

  Edwin nodded in sympathy. ‘But you have no wounds anywhere, no cuts? Nothing’s broken?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No, thank the Lord.’ Joanna crossed herself and Edwin gave a small prayer of thanks. Broken bones could cripple a man for life, and open wounds were even worse – many a man was killed by cuts which looked harmless to start with, for if they had the wrong humour in their blood then the wounds went bad and they died from the poison.

  ‘So, what happened? How did you find the outlaws, and what were they doing? How did you capture them?’

  Martin tried to raise himself, failed, and moved one hand stiffly as he gestured to Edwin to come closer. Edwin settled himself on the floor next to the bed, his legs crossed. Joanna was still on the stool, dipping a rag into a bowl of water and dabbing it on Martin’s head. Martin looked up at her gratefully, and Edwin tried to ignore the awkward feeling he had at being here with the two of them. He listened as Martin outlined the events of the previous afternoon.

  As the squire finished his tale Edwin shuddered at the thought of the man being torn to pieces by dogs. How could Sir Geoffrey threaten such a thing? How could he be so ruthless? He had never seemed that way, or at least not to Edwin – but perhaps that was what he was like when he was dealing with enemies. Edwin had seen enough knightly violence in the last few weeks to know that even the most pleasant-seeming men could be capable of atrocious violence under certain circumstances. But Sir Geoffrey? He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at him in the same way again. But then again, the outlaws were responsible for the death of Joan and her baby. His sympathy for the men wilted as he recalled the blood on Cecily’s hands and the look in her eyes.

  He realised that Martin had stopped talking. ‘So, what will happen to them now?’

  Martin tried to shrug, and then winced. ‘My lord and Sir Geoffrey will try and find out why they’re here and where they’ve come from, I guess, but there seems little doubt that they’re the ones who have been causing all the trouble, so I guess there’ll have to be hangings.’

  There was silence.

  It was Joanna who broke it. ‘So, Edwin,’ she said in a voice that was just a little too brittle, ‘how have you been getting on? Have you found out who killed Hamo yet?’

  It was Edwin’s t
urn to shrug. ‘I seem to be no closer than I was when I started. All I know is that he comes from somewhere miles and miles away, he used to have lots of brothers, and someone thinks he heard him say “William” as he was dying.’

  Joanna paused with the rag in the air. ‘William? Well, that’s not much help. I can think of at least half a dozen Williams without even trying.’

  Martin nodded. ‘You can hardly find a family without a William in it somewhere.’

  ‘I know.’ Edwin was morose. How in the Lord’s name was he going to find out any more?

  ‘I’ll tell you what, though.’ Martin had spoken again and the other two looked enquiringly at him. ‘I was angry that my lord wouldn’t let me help you out as he needed me to stay with him, but I’m going to be no use to him for a few days anyway, so maybe I can help.’ He flapped his hand. ‘Oh, I don’t mean I can run round and talk to people, but you can come here when you get the chance and tell me everything you’ve found so far. I know it helps you to get things straight in your own mind when you tell someone else.’

  He was right, Edwin realised, although he’d never thought of it in exactly that way before. But yes, the chance to talk things through and to share the burden would be wonderful. The Lord knew he missed being able to sit with his father, and since he’d also lost … but better not to think of that, of him. That was over, dead and buried, and he needed to build himself a wall to stop his mind going there. He needed to think about something else. Think. Richard the cook came from Reigate. Did that have any bearing on anything? Might he have known Hamo before? And who in the Lord’s name was ‘William’?