Give Up the Dead

by C. B. Hanley

  The work was hard, for the earth was summer-hard, but between them, amid the sweat and the dust, they completed their task. They climbed out of the grave and began to lower the bodies in – with care, for these were their comrades and friends. Two or three men at a time handled the eight larger bodies; Edwin made sure that he and he alone carried Dickon, tucking the small form next to Alf and leaving space for Sir Roger to place Peter on the other side. He touched Dickon’s head briefly, murmuring ‘Go with God, little one,’ and silently added a thought to Alf that he had kept his promise. He – she – would lie safe.

  A priest had been found from among those in the camp, and he gabbled his way through the words with little interest or enthusiasm, having no doubt reeled off the same service many times that day. The earth was replaced, the turfs stacked on the mound. A wooden cross was hammered in. Then the men drifted away, leaving Edwin with John standing next to the kneeling Sir Roger. They waited until he finished his fervent prayer and stood for a final look at the grave.

  John took a deep breath and addressed him directly. ‘Sir. I’m not a man of many words, but I want to tell you how sorry I am about your boy. He was a lovely little lad. A good archer, willing learner, and he loved you like a father.’

  Sir Roger took a moment to compose himself. ‘Thank you. And my condolences to you on your own loss.’

  John nodded. ‘Aye, well. Nigel was a friend, and I’m sorry to lose him. But a grown man in battle is one thing; killing boys and cripples in cold blood is another. He – both of them – should have had the chance to grow up.’

  His voice choked, and Edwin recalled his own tale of the wives and sons lost in childbed.

  Unwilling to display any further emotion, John changed the subject as they began to walk back to the camp. ‘And … Sir Hugh?’

  Sir Roger sighed. ‘Not long for this world, I’m afraid. To be honest it’s only his stubbornness that’s kept him alive this long.’

  ‘No hope for him, then?’

  ‘Only that his suffering might be short. Just keep him in your prayers.’

  They reached their depleted area of the camp. One of the other men had made an attempt at cooking a meal, and Edwin looked at the unappetising mess that was presented to him.

  He stirred it round as he allowed thoughts to wash over him, trying to work out who the victors in this war actually were. He himself had lost friends, but he was now more confident that his wife and family would be safe. The lord earl was alive and would no doubt be richer by the sum of several ransoms, but was he trusted by his peers, and did any of this make him happy? Peter had lost his life because he’d come here with Sir Roger, but if you asked him, Edwin reckoned he’d probably choose the same path again. His months with Sir Roger, following as they did his aimless and hungry existence as a ragged beggar boy, had been the happiest of his short life. Alf was dead, and so was his only surviving child, but they’d stayed together. Was that better or worse than Dickon starving in the streets as another orphan?

  Edwin allowed himself a rueful smile, inwardly at least, about how stupid he’d been not to see the truth about Dickon earlier. And he called himself observant! All those trips off alone to ‘pick herbs’, the waiting to leave the camp until after it was dark – all to avoid having to go to the latrine at the same time as the men, of course. Along with everyone else, Edwin had been thoroughly misdirected about Alf and his ‘son’.

  He stopped stirring.

  Misdirected.

  Oh Lord. It was all so obvious. Or at least, all except for …

  He put the bowl down, the slop still untasted. He made his way over to Sir Roger and tried to keep his voice casual. ‘Is Humphrey still in the tent with Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘No particular reason. I just need to go and find Martin.’

  Edwin hurried through the camp. There was only one possible answer, and it would explain every incident – except one. Edwin was sure in his heart that he was right, but if he was, then how to explain that single anomaly? He didn’t want to speak out until he could prove everything absolutely; but if he waited too long to resolve everything to his satisfaction, then he might have another death on his hands. He needed to talk to Martin, and he needed to do it now.

  He slowed as he approached the earl’s camp, aware that he still wouldn’t be let anywhere near the pavilion. Instead he made his way to the cooking area, where to his relief he saw the tall figure and managed to attract his attention.

  Martin saw his urgency and came towards him. Edwin pulled him away behind a tent so they couldn’t be seen.

  ‘There haven’t been any further attacks on the earl since the battle, have there?’

  ‘No. Why?’ Martin thought for a moment. ‘Could it be because the man who was trying to kill him was himself killed in the battle?’

  This seemed to give him some satisfaction, but Edwin had to disappoint him. ‘I’ve got a different idea.’ He pointed to a patch of ground in a sheltered corner behind the tent. ‘Sit there and tell me again about the night the lord earl’s pavilion caught fire.’

  Martin looked puzzled, but he did as he was bid. ‘You know what happened. I went to bed and —’

  Edwin shook his head. ‘No, I mean tell me exactly what happened. I want to hear every single little detail, everything you saw or heard or felt. Concentrate, now. Think yourself back. Start from the moment I left.’

  He watched in silence for a moment as Martin sat back and then closed his eyes. ‘They were eating. Philip took some of Matthew’s, which made Adam angry.’

  Edwin listened with care as Martin continued, sinking himself further into the events of the evening. They had gone back into the central space. Salisbury had sent his squires away. Adam had given the page some bread – Martin smiled as he recalled it. ‘Just like him to do that.’ He had checked the jug of wine was full. He had gone … ‘No, wait.’ His eyes still closed, he rubbed at the back of his hand. ‘I spilled some wax on my hand. Nothing serious. And I’m sure I didn’t upset the new candle. Besides, if I had then one of them would have noticed – they were there for a long while after that.’

  Edwin stared into the middle distance as the tale went on, trying to lose the here and now and to see and hear things as Martin had done on that night. And then, his reward.

  ‘Say that again.’

  Martin opened his eyes and repeated the piece of information he’d just given. Then he gave a whistle. ‘You mean …’

  Edwin nodded, feeling the excitement rise. ‘Yes.’ And, oh Lord, there was more. ‘And it also means I’m right about something else.’ He repeated his own words: ‘Say that again …’ Yes. It was the final thread in the pattern.

  He began to rise, but Martin put out a hand to stop him. ‘Oh no. Not this time. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what you’ve got planned.’

  ‘Don’t worry. This time, I won’t be able to do it without you.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Edwin crouched behind the untidy stack of baggage in Sir Hugh’s tent. Humphrey had been summoned back to the earl’s side; he had left unwillingly, with a promise to be back as soon as he could, but he knew that orders from his lord were to be obeyed without question. The knight himself was lying on his cot, grey-faced, his breathing laboured, blood and pus seeping through his bandages once more. He was dying, and anyone who saw him would know that. But not everyone had seen him in person; those who hadn’t might well have been fooled by Sir Roger’s loud announcement around the camp that he had been mistaken earlier, that Sir Hugh’s great strength and determination meant he now looked likely to recover.

  Edwin was gambling on the fact that the right person had heard, and he stared at the darkening outline of the tent flap as the sun went down. Was he correct? He had to be – there was no other logical explanation. He tried to relax his muscles one by one so that he wouldn’t get cramp in his confined space, for he didn’t know how long he was going to be there.

  He
didn’t know how much time had passed when he saw the tent flap twitch. He held his breath as he saw the shadow slip in.

  He was right.

  There had been no further attacks since the battle. But this was not because the perpetrator had been killed; it was because everyone knew that Sir Hugh was dying.

  Edwin’s instinct was to jump up straight away, but he had to wait. Until he had witnessed the actual attempt, it could all be denied, and although he was sure in his own mind, there was no substitute for proof.

  The figure stood looking down at Sir Hugh for a long moment, and then with deliberation it picked up a blanket, rolled it into a ball and stepped forward.

  Edwin waited until the cloth was actually being pressed against the motionless knight’s face, and then he stood. ‘Stop!’

  John jumped almost out of his skin. He dropped the blanket as he turned in one smooth movement and drew his knife.

  He saw Edwin, and, although he didn’t exactly relax, his stance seemed to soften a little. ‘It’s you.’

  Edwin was acutely aware of the knife, but now at least John was facing away from Sir Hugh, who was still breathing. He said nothing.

  John realised he should make some effort to explain himself. ‘I was just –’

  ‘I know what you were doing. I know you were trying to kill him, and I know you’ve been trying to kill him since you joined the host.’

  The hand holding the knife wavered. ‘How can you possibly know that? How can you think that?’

  ‘Move further away from him and I’ll tell you.’

  The only light came from the sinking sun and the camp fires outside, slanting in through the tent flap behind John so Edwin couldn’t see his face properly. But he caught a shake of the head. ‘No. Tell me now, here where we stand.’

  Edwin shrugged. ‘All right.’ Hoping the gesture didn’t look too obvious, he put his hands behind his back. ‘I was fooled to start with by the fire in the lord earl’s pavilion, which happened before Sir Hugh arrived and before you did. That was why I thought someone was trying to kill him. But that was an accident – my lord kicked a chair over in anger and didn’t notice he’d sent wax and flame flying on to the canvas. No, the real attacks didn’t start until you got here, and they were all aimed at Sir Hugh, not the earl.’

  He seemed to have John’s attention. How long could he keep him away from the injured knight?

  ‘That night around the fire, you made a fuss about losing your knife, but of course you still had it yourself, and while you were off in the dark pretending to look for it, you threw it at Sir Hugh. When that didn’t work you tried to poison the earl’s evening meal, knowing that Sir Hugh was eating with him. I suspected Alf for a while, thinking he might have sent Dickon to put something in the pot. Or even Humphrey. But if either of them had done it they would have known which herbs and plants would cause a swift death. You didn’t, which is why you failed. And you had no regard for who else might suffer, including innocent boys.’

  John snorted. ‘There’s no innocent noble alive. They’re all just as bad as one another.’

  ‘Really? Even little Hugh, who you saw being attacked by bigger squires and thought it unfair? Even Adam, who stood up for him and took a beating when you wouldn’t interfere?’

  John said nothing. Edwin was trying to remain calm, but he could feel his anger rising. ‘And then that day in the woods, it was you who picked up a stray arrow and killed Alan with it. The rest of the arrow-storm fell on that part of the column because the nobles are easy to see in their bright surcoats. But yours was aimed, and Sir Hugh was hundreds of yards from you – nobody could possibly have got that close to him except you. And it was only because Alan threw himself in front of the cart that you failed.’

  The more he got worked up, the more John seemed to be calming down. His demeanour was relaxed, even confident. ‘You’re talking rubbish. After-effects of the shock of the battle, I expect. Why don’t you go and lie down?’

  Edwin continued. ‘And at the docks – it was you who did something to the plank.’

  ‘Ah, now you know you’re lying – we all helped them together, and you were there too. We came back to the camp together.’

  ‘But you went back, didn’t you? That’s what Stephen meant when we spoke to him again about the lime. “We wouldn’t have done it half so fast if you hadn’t come back”.’

  ‘He must have meant all of us —’

  ‘And he called you John. How did he know what your name was? Nobody mentioned it while we were all there the first time. He could only have known it if you’d gone back and spoken to him again. What did you do, offer to buy him that drink? Send him and his friends off to a tavern while you damaged the plank with the tools you carry in your bag?’

  John looked less sure of himself now. ‘But —’

  Edwin shook his head. ‘It’s all true. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.’

  Now he started to bluster. ‘Ha! Is that all you’ve got? You reckon they’ll hang me on your say-so? They wouldn’t take your word to save me that time, why should they take it to condemn me now?’

  He had steered the conversation in exactly the direction Edwin wanted. He tried to keep his voice casual. ‘But these great men will hang us on a whim if it suits them, won’t they? You said that to me yourself.’

  He’d scored a hit, and John knew it, but he made one last attempt. ‘Well, if this is what you think, then why? Why would I want to kill Sir Hugh, and why in God’s name would I choose to do it now and not any of the other years I’ve been in his service?’

  Edwin kept his hands behind his back, his fingers curled around the hilt of the hidden dagger. He was approaching the moment of danger, and he might need it soon. ‘Because it was only on the day that you joined this host that you found out what Sir Hugh had done.’

  John froze.

  ‘When we met up with you, Sir Hugh was telling you all about discipline. He was telling you that if you stepped out of line and tried to plunder anything, you’d be punished. He reminded you that in France three years ago he’d hanged a man for stealing from a church.’

  ‘But …’ John was struggling now. Edwin still couldn’t see him properly but he could sense his agitation, feel the heat, smell the sweat. ‘So what? We all knew that already.’

  Edwin’s right hand clasped the hilt of the dagger. ‘But it wasn’t until that moment that you found out that the man he hanged was your son.’

  He was prepared for an attack, but he wasn’t prepared for the wail of pain and misery that escaped John’s lips. It shook him, but if he was going to get the confession he needed, he had to be remorseless. ‘Three sons, all dead, you said. And because you mentioned your wives dying in childbed I just assumed they’d all died as babies. But one didn’t, did he?’

  ‘My eldest. Richard.’ The voice was a whisper.

  ‘He grew up. You taught him to shoot. You kept the bow he used as a boy and you still carry it everywhere. You loved him, and when he died you mourned him. You looked out for other little boys, made them toys, taught them to shoot – because you missed your own son.’

  Edwin stopped for breath, and then let the silence form and stretch out.

  It was John who caved in, unable to stand the void. ‘We got separated into different units. He went off with his, and all I heard later was that he’d been killed. I was broken, but at least I thought he’d died in battle.’

  ‘Until Nigel finally said it out loud, that day,’ said Edwin. ‘I saw you talking to him, and I heard you. “Say that again,” you said. And I thought you were arguing, you were daring him to say something to your face that he’d said under his breath, so you could fight about it. But the tone of your voice was all wrong. You actually couldn’t believe what you’d heard, so were asking him to repeat it, probably hoping you’d heard wrong.’

  John was looking into the distance. ‘All those years … and nobody told me the truth.’

  ‘They wanted to spare you.’
<
br />   ‘Spare me? Oh aye, spare me the news that that murdering bastard had hanged a boy of seventeen.’ He took a step back towards Sir Hugh.

  ‘No. I meant spare you the news that your son was a thief and a defiler of churches. That he was disloyal to his lord and deliberately disobeyed his orders. That he brought shame on himself, and on you.’

  John gaped for a moment, as if unable to believe that such cruel words could be coming out of Edwin’s mouth. His voice broke. ‘No! It’s not true! He was a good lad, and Sir Hugh killed him. And if my son wasn’t allowed to die in battle then neither was he. I was going to … but now I don’t care if there’s marks as long as he’s dead.’

  He stepped to the cot and raised the knife, at which point Edwin said, loudly and clearly, ‘Now!’

  It was over in moments. Martin, wearing his mail, ducked through the tent entrance and made for John. A panicked slash of the knife barely glanced off the links of his hauberk before he had the man pinioned. Sir Roger stood up from where he had lain concealed on the ground on the far side of Sir Hugh’s bed; he removed the blade from John’s now unresisting hand and tucked it in his own belt. He reached out to touch Edwin’s shoulder. ‘Well done. We’ll take him away to the lord earl – you stay here until I send word.’

  Edwin nodded and watched Martin drag John out, his arms like iron bands round him, the captive’s feet hardly touching the floor. His knees felt shaky all of a sudden and he collapsed to the floor beside the bed. With a trembling hand he reached out to brush the hair away from Sir Hugh’s perspiring forehead: the dying knight had remained unconscious through it all.

  Martin had seen the captive bound and put under guard. Indeed, he’d checked the knots himself just to make sure, and set no fewer than four men to stand guard all night, two on and two off in watches. If the prisoner escaped then there would be hell to pay all round. John’s struggling and swearing, as Martin had half-carried and half-dragged him through the camp, had subsided to what looked like a limp acceptance of his fate, but Martin gave the guards permission to gag him if he started again.