B00B9BL6TI EBOK

by C. B. Hanley

  Time passed.

  She knew she had to face it. Standing here would do no good. She moved forward towards the body, then stopped. She stoked the small fire to get as much light as possible, and knelt down.

  She took a deep breath and reached out gently to touch the boy’s shoulder. For boy it was: there was no doubt of his identity. He was wearing the familiar tunic of best scarlet which was slightly too small, which he had been wearing when he went missing. Oh Nick, what has happened to you since that day? Her hand lingered tenderly on his shoulder for a moment before she turned him over.

  He rolled on to his back, and she scrabbled away in horror. His dear face was almost unrecognisable, bloody, lacerated and swollen. More blood crusted the front of his tunic, and both of his hands were covered in it. What had he been through? Fourteen years old and beaten to death in the town that was his home. She gathered her brother to her, his head in her lap, and embraced him as she rocked back and forth, weeping.

  Once the storm inside her mind had subsided a little, Alys was able to realise that sitting on the kitchen floor with the back door wide open might not be the safest place for her to be. Especially given that somebody had already been in the yard once that night to leave Nick’s body on the threshold. She laid his head down carefully, unwilling to cause any further damage, and forced her shaking legs to straighten and carry her to the door. She shut it, checking several unnecessary times that the latch was firmly in its place, and then barred it and wedged a stool under it as well. Then she turned back to Nick’s body. There was no way she would be able to carry it upstairs on her own, and anyway she was determined not to wake the children again. Let them sleep if they could, giving them a few more hours before they needed to return to their waking nightmare to find that another loved one had died –had been murdered.

  With some difficulty she lifted him into a sitting position and put her arms around him, clasping her hands in front of his chest. Then she heaved him backwards out of the kitchen and into the shop, his feet dragging in the rushes on the floor. Once inside the front room she laid him down again and considered how best to proceed. The shop counter was too high, and besides, that would be somehow unseemly. The small part of her mind which had retained its wits wondered how on earth she could consider something unseemly when here she was in the middle of a war, dragging a dead body through the house in the dark on her own, but there it was. And he was too young to be laid out in such a formal way. He was barely a year younger than her; of all the family they had been the closest in age, and the memories of their childhood came rushing at her, the cold body making way in her mind for the imp with the roguish smile, the tricks he’d played and the scrapes he’d dragged her into.

  She knew what she would do. Heedless of the value of the cloth, she dragged a bolt of linen down from its shelf and unrolled yards and yards of it, making it into a soft bed in front of the hearth. Then she hauled him over to it and laid him down, rising again to position two thick rolls of broadcloth between him and the rest of the room. There. Now he had his own cosy little den next to the fire, like the ones he used to make as a little boy, whenever he could get away with it. Then she knelt by him and prayed for his safe passage into God’s grace, another soul who had passed over and left her alone.

  The hill was getting steeper, and Edwin slipped down the final few feet as he neared the bottom. As he regained his balance he thought he heard a noise. He paused. There it was again. Footsteps and a jingling sound – a group of men heading this way; armed. He peered about him for somewhere to hide. In the darkness he made out a narrow alley between two houses and ducked into it, just in time. He stood as still as his heart would let him, trying not to breathe too heavily, as a group of soldiers tramped by. They were French; their accent was difficult to make out, but he understood enough to learn that they weren’t searching for anyone in particular – it was a routine patrol, and they were bored. They passed very close to the opening of the alley, and he held his breath until they moved on, but just at that moment his stomach made a loud growling noise and he clutched it in a panic, screwing up his eyes with fear. He waited. They hadn’t heard it. They were continuing on their way, and the sound of their feet gradually receded. Edwin became conscious of the fact that all his muscles were clenched and he tried to make himself relax. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was, but now he came to think about it, it was a fair while since he’d had anything to eat and he was starving. This was hardly the time to go looking for a meal, so the quicker he completed his mission, the quicker he might be able to fill the void in his stomach. Cautiously he peered out from the alley, nervous in case the men should have left one of their number watching silently, but he couldn’t see anyone. He stepped out on to the main street to continue on his way.

  At the foot of the steep hill the road split into two, and he followed the left-hand route which led him down a shallower incline with more houses close on either side. Here there were fewer marks of destruction; presumably the fighting had passed by this part of town. The only damage he could see were a couple of shutters which were hanging crooked from one or two of the buildings.

  When he judged that he was about halfway down the street he stopped. He looked at the buildings on the left. How was he to tell which was the right one? They all looked the same with the shutters closed. He hadn’t thought of this. As he considered what to do next, he sheltered in the lee of one of the houses, leaning against the door as he looked up and down the street. As he stood there it opened, and he fell.

  Alys looked down at the body. The prayers had dried up and she had been kneeling in silence for some while now. She knew what she must do; it was just that she could not summon the will or the energy to do it. She must complete the task. She must finish the work that her father and brother had died for, so that their deaths might not be in vain. It was possible that she held the key which would save the city. And yet she couldn’t move from the floor. She knew that she ought to be afraid for herself and for the others asleep upstairs – if she too were to die then who would take care of them? But somehow she wasn’t frightened, she could feel no emotion. If she didn’t do something then they would all die anyway, so what was the difference?

  She needed to shrug off this inertia. Had Papa’s and Nick’s deaths been for nothing? They had tried and tried, and was she now to be the member of the family who would let them down? She would not. The task must be completed. If she were to be killed then the children must try to survive as best they could until Thomas returned; the neighbours or the priest would help to look after them. She gathered up her skirts and her courage and rose, stretching her aching muscles. She would just have to risk making her way through the town during the dead of night. It meant that there would be fewer people about who might see her, but that anybody who was out and about was probably up to no good. Still, the message must be delivered. She crept towards the front door and gathered her shawl around her. She couldn’t really believe that she was about to do this, but then, it was also beyond belief that the city which had been her home for all of her life should be crawling with French soldiers, that she should have been left to assume the role of head of the family, with no father or brothers to support her, and that Nick’s murdered corpse should be lying by the hearth. The whole world was going mad, so she might as well accept it and step out into the fast-flowing river of the times. Steeling herself, she opened the door.

  A man fell into the room, and she screamed.

  It was so like what had happened earlier that in her initial panic she thought it might be another body, but this one was definitely alive. She was immediately aware that she hadn’t picked up anything to carry with her which she might use to defend herself – how naïve and foolish! – and she looked around in a panic for anything she might use as a weapon. Unfortunately the shop was full only of the bolts of cloth, which wouldn’t be much use. The man started to rise, and she kicked him hard in the ribs, still terrified. There was nothing else she could do. A
lmost out of her senses with fright, she kicked him again and again, trying to push him out of the door so that she could bar it.

  He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear it at first. Then it broke through her consciousness. ‘Stop, stop, please! I haven’t come to hurt you.’

  Startled by the lack of hostility in his voice, she ceased her kicking and stood back warily, still searching the room for something to use as a weapon. Then he looked up: it was Edwin. She backed away.

  He raised himself to a kneeling position, holding his ribs as though in some pain, and spoke with care. ‘I haven’t come to hurt you – I just want to talk.’ He repeated himself. ‘I won’t hurt you. See?’ Slowly he moved his hands and held them out to either side of himself, away from his body. He held nothing in them, although she could see that there was a dagger hanging from his belt. He had clearly made no attempt to draw it.

  She took a deep breath and stood, shuddering. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Well, for a start I’d like you to stop kicking me.’

  The tone surprised her. The voice didn’t contain any malice. She waited. He shifted position and she was immediately on the defensive again. ‘If you move I can scream loudly enough to wake my family and the neighbours before you can get to me.’

  He froze. ‘Please don’t. See, I’m not moving.’ He kept his hands away from his body.

  ‘All right. But tell me why you’re here. We have nothing to steal, there’s no money or food.’

  For some reason he seemed tongue-tied. This was not her idea of a violent housebreaker or soldier intent on looting, nor yet a murdering spy, but she remained on edge. She had been drawn to him earlier, but when all was said and done he wasn’t a local man and she had no reason to trust him. She looked more closely at him. He was definitely not from anywhere around here or from anywhere they traded: the weave of his tunic was not one she had seen before.

  Finally he replied, looking if anything slightly abashed. ‘I suppose I may as well tell you, as I can’t think of anything else to say. I know what your father was really doing the night he was killed, and I need to talk to you about it.’

  Her surprise was total, and she was speechless. She couldn’t order her thoughts. How best to react? Was this some kind of trap? Or could it be that this man was one of her father’s co-conspirators?

  The silence grew longer as they stared at each other; he still kneeling, she backed against the shop’s counter. She felt breathless, unable to speak a word. Why was he looking at her like that? Why could he possibly be here? Who was he? The decision she was about to make might have catastrophic consequences either way: if she let him in and he was an enemy, she could be dead within moments; if he was a friend and she sent him away, she might miss her best chance of helping to save the city. She considered him again. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and the moon gave some illumination through the open door. He looked young and his eyes were friendly. He still showed no sign of violence, but this could all be a deception. He certainly wasn’t the merchant he’d claimed to be, and probably wasn’t even William’s nephew. So what if he was lying now? But then again, why had William trusted him? Had he been taken in by the stranger, or did he know something which she didn’t? She was torn by the agony of indecision. Still Edwin waited for her reply, saying nothing. What was she to do?

  As the moments passed her resolve grew stronger. This might be the most hopelessly foolish thing she had ever done, but if the city was to be saved then chances would have to be taken. And, all said and done, if she was going to die then she would rather do it here in her home than out on the cold streets, where her father and brother had met their ends.

  She moved around him and shut the door. ‘You’d better come in.’

  They sat in the kitchen, facing each other across the table, where she had placed a burning rushlight. It wasn’t as good as a candle, for it spluttered and spat flickering shadows across the room, but it was better than sitting in the dark with a strange man, and besides, she had used the last candles during the vigil over her father’s body so there was no other choice. Also on the table was his dagger in its ornate scabbard, which he had placed there as a sign of good faith. She glanced down at it, knowing nothing of such weapons but aware that it looked to be a fine thing, much finer than the man in front of her, judging by his clothes. The fabric was some kind of tabby weave, and not of the highest quality either, as Peter had been so quick to point out – probably homespun and certainly not of the standard which her father would sell. But the dagger drew her attention; it was definitely a weapon, not an everyday knife – a blade whose purpose was to maim and kill, and the sight of it made her shiver.

  As she’d ushered him into the back of the house she’d paused at the bottom of the stairs, listening carefully for any sign of movement, but thank the Lord it seemed the children hadn’t wakened again. Their fear had led to exhaustion and they hadn’t stirred. Nor had there been any sign of life from Mistress Guildersleeve’s house next door or from Master Pinel on the other side; perhaps her scream hadn’t been as loud as it had seemed to her, or perhaps they had heard it and were too frightened to come and investigate.

  Edwin, too, had paused ahead of her at the foot of the stairs, and again she felt the danger they were in – if he wanted to go up the stairs, she wouldn’t be able to stop him. Ice-cold blood ran through her at the thought, but as she was wavering about her decision he moved on into the kitchen. Now they sat, and all around them was silence.

  It was she who broke the deadlock. ‘How do you know what he was doing?’

  ‘Well, he was out in the night during a dangerous time, so there were only three possibilities.’ He ticked off the numbers on his fingers as he spoke. ‘One, he was a spy for the French and was going to talk to them. Two, he was going to visit the widow Gunnilda, as Ralf said. Or three, he was working for those inside the castle and was trying to contact them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If he’d been a spy for the French, he would probably have been near their encampment, not in the area of the town where he was found. I know that was where he was when he was hit, because there was a stone there with blood all over it … Oh. Sorry.’

  The nausea passed, but bitterness came behind it. ‘This afternoon everyone seemed very eager to believe it was the second of your choices.’

  He leaned forward. ‘But not you. You were adamant that that wasn’t what he was doing. You were so sure that I knew you weren’t just speaking up for him, for the way he loved your mother. You knew. And you could only have known that he was not going to the widow Gunnilda if you did know where he was going.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And besides, I think I know what Ralf saw. One or two nights, he may well have seen your father, as he was about the town looking for ways to fight the invaders. But Ralf’s eyesight is poor, and on the night when he followed someone all the way to the widow’s house, it wasn’t your father. It was your neighbour Pinel.’

  ‘Pinel! No, he wouldn’t. He’s a married man …’ She tailed off. Actually, when she thought about it, it wasn’t all that unbelievable. And that red hat …

  She looked at him in silence. He shrugged.

  Now she wanted to question him. ‘Fine. So you know what Papa was doing on the night he was killed. But who are you? And what have you got to do with all of this?’

  He replied cautiously. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  She folded her arms. ‘Then I won’t tell you what I know.’

  He seized on her response. ‘So you do know something?’

  She was flustered at giving herself away so easily. ‘Well, I …’ She must get a hold on her mind. Her thoughts were still too jumbled, and this wouldn’t do. There was no point in denying it now, so she must work from here. ‘Yes. But I won’t tell you unless you explain who you are.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t say.’

  She clenched her folded arms tighter around herself. Could he tell how frightened she wa
s? Probably he could, but now she had started she may as well plough on. ‘Then you may leave, for it is the only way you will get your information.’ As soon as the words had left her mouth she realised that there were plenty of other, less pleasant ways in which he could get his information and that by sitting in a darkened room in the middle of the night with a strange man, she had left herself open to many of them. She squeezed her arms even tighter, gripping her sides, trying to stop herself from shivering.

  He gazed at her steadily and she quailed. But then, for reasons she could not fathom, a look of horror developed on his face. For a moment she thought he was going to be sick, but he collected his wits and spoke. ‘All right. I’ve come from the castle to find out about what’s been going on in the town. Those inside believe there may be information available which will help them.’

  Briefly, a tide of relief swept over her. He’d come from the castle! He could take the message back so that she wouldn’t have to venture out into the streets! But just as quickly she was assailed by suspicion. What if this was all a trick? Again she wrestled with indecision. She looked at him carefully again, inspecting him closely to see if she could gain any awareness of his motives. His face was open and honest, and for some reason she wanted to trust him. Of course, if the enemy was sending spies out to gain information, they too would look open and trustworthy. But she had taken a chance thus far, so why not continue? He had made no move to harm her and besides, if he was a spy, why would he have blurted out straight away what he was looking for?

  If she was honest, it came down purely to instinct – she didn’t believe he was a traitor.

  She sighed.

  ‘As you know, my father is dead.’

  Now she’d started, there was no sense in holding anything back. She sent up a small prayer for what she was about to say.