by C. B. Hanley
As he walked back to the earl’s pavilion to explain everything to him, the enormity of what the man had done – had tried to do – struck him anew. To betray his lord, to attempt to kill him … it was almost inconceivable. It was against every law of God and man, an inversion of everything that was natural.
His own revulsion was mirrored in the lord earl’s face when he told him all about it. Of course, he didn’t do it as well or as smoothly as Edwin would have done; Edwin would have explained every little happenstance and made it all sound perfectly logical. Instead Martin blurted out the main facts and said that both he and Sir Roger had heard the man confess.
As he went on and the full scale of the situation became clear, the earl began to exhibit not just disgust but rage. Martin could see it coming in the thin lips, the tightly controlled gestures. And it dawned on him that the earl was not just angry with the man John – who was so far below him as to render his motives irrelevant and meaningless – but with Sir Hugh himself. In essence, the cold fury in his lord’s voice was because Sir Hugh had been so slack in the choice of men to accompany him on the campaign that the earl himself had been put in danger.
Of course, thought Martin, this wasn’t because he was afraid for his life, or at least not entirely. It was because of the balance of power in the kingdom, the number of other lives depending on him, and what would happen to them all if he died suddenly. There would be chaos.
The earl concluded. ‘We’ll hang him first thing in the morning and he can count himself lucky.’
‘Lucky, my lord?’
Those slate-grey eyes bored into Martin’s. ‘There are worse punishments available for those guilty of treason.’
Martin felt momentarily queasy. He was still not quite over the sight of the injuries he’d inflicted on the men on the ship, but at least that had been in the heat of battle. The idea of watching while a screaming man was tortured and punished made his stomach turn. He would need to harden himself to such things, of course. But then again, the punishment had to fit the crime. If someone, for example, had hurt Joanna, what would he be prepared to do? He’d wield the iron himself.
He’d almost missed the earl’s next sentence, and he had to repeat it to make sure he’d understood correctly.
‘Sorry my lord, but you want Sir Hugh to be brought to the execution?’
‘Yes. His man, his responsibility. He will see justice done in person.’
Moving the knight would kill him, surely – although he was going to die anyway so maybe it would be a mercy to hasten his end. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’ll go and arrange that now.’
‘Go. No, wait.’
‘My lord?’
‘If, as you say, Weaver had a hand in this, tell him to be there too. He can witness justice – and it will do him good to see what happens to men who betray their lords.’
Once outside the pavilion, Martin hesitated. How best to go about it?
The smell of cooking gave him his answer.
It was late but Humphrey and his men were eating their meal after serving and clearing away everyone else’s. He welcomed Martin and listened to his story with an increasingly grim expression. Together they made their way to Sir Hugh’s part of the camp, where the circle of men was even smaller and more subdued, huddled round their fire.
Martin looked at them with suspicion. Had any of the rest of them been in on it? Was there still danger?
There was somebody moving inside the tent. Martin drew his sword and prepared himself, but the figure who emerged was Edwin. He was startled at the sight of the weapon, holding up his hands, and Martin sheathed it again.
Edwin spoke to Humphrey, keeping his voice low. ‘He’s still alive. He’s even come close to waking up a couple of times; I’m almost sure he recognised me for a few moments.’ He held the tent flap open and Humphrey went in.
Martin stood erect outside the tent, hand on sword, daring any to come near and challenge him; the protection and privacy he could offer Sir Hugh and Humphrey was the last thing he could do for them. Under his breath he filled Edwin in on the sentence of death and the arrangements for the execution. He told him that the earl wanted him there, but refrained from adding the second half of the sentence.
He could hear murmurs from inside the tent. He tried not to listen, but with Edwin so silent and the other men starting to sleep, it was difficult not to.
‘Father. Father, can you hear me?’
A groan that might have been one of recognition.
‘I ask your forgiveness, Father. I know I’ve always been a disappointment to you. I’m not a knight, not brave like you.’
The ghost of Sir Hugh’s voice. ‘All right, boy.’
‘And – I also ask your blessing. What I do isn’t what you do, but the lord earl looks favourably on my work.’
‘Serve the earl … in your own way, I suppose. Bless you.’
Humphrey made a sound that could only be a sob. ‘Thank you, Father, thank you.’
Martin heard him get up, but the hoarse whisper sounded again. He could just make it out. ‘No. Stay with me, boy.’
Silence fell inside the tent, and Martin stared at the starry sky. Sir Hugh would be all right with Humphrey sitting right by him, and Sir Roger’s tent was only yards away. He could go back to his lord. And he could learn to serve him in his own way.
Hangings always took place at dawn, apparently, although Edwin didn’t know whether that was to cut short the terror of the condemned or the anxiety of the executioners; he could hardly put one foot in front of the other as they made for the edge of the woods. A suitable tree had been found the night before, one of its branches tested for strength.
Alongside him, one of the men carrying Sir Hugh’s litter slipped, and Edwin shot out a hand to steady it as he regained his balance. Sir Hugh groaned and opened his eyes, but they were closed again before they reached their destination. His bearers laid the litter down on a bare patch of earth at the edge of the tree-line, where he would be able to view the proceedings if he regained sufficient consciousness. Edwin had been shocked at the command to bring the dying man along, considering it unnecessary cruelty, and he’d been even more horrified by the sharp words the earl had addressed to his knight, expressing his disappointment. Edwin sincerely hoped that Sir Hugh had not heard, or had at least not been conscious enough to understand, for it would have broken him more than the French weapons ever did. Half a century of loyal service – more than a lifetime for many people – to the earl and his father, all come to this.
The earl and Sir Roger were both riding, and they took position some yards back from the chosen site in order not to scare their mounts. Edwin wished he could be shown as much consideration, but of course he was worth much less in his lord’s eyes than the horse, wasn’t he? Sir Roger dismounted and made his way over to press Sir Hugh’s hand before he took station next to Edwin. He shot a look that Edwin interpreted as an inquiry about his welfare, and he managed the barest nod in reply.
Sir Hugh’s archers and sergeants marched into the clearing. Most of them lined up, staring straight ahead, while a small group formed a knot under the spreading branches of the tree – an oak, Edwin noted, hoping that by concentrating on the leaves he could shut out the rest of it. They threw a rope over the selected bough and then huddled around a figure in their midst.
Eventually they moved back and left John standing alone. For a moment he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world, despite the noose around his neck and the hands bound behind his back; he glanced around him at the green glade and inhaled deep breaths of the dawn air, fresher here than in the packed camp. But then his gaze met Edwin’s, and Edwin almost took a step back at the malevolence contained within. This was not the John he thought he knew. Misdirected, in more ways than one.
‘So, here we are then. You’ve saved me twice – are you going to do it again?’ The voice was harsh, mocking.
Edwin risked a glance around at the earl, but he had been momentarily d
istracted by Sir Hugh, who had groaned and started to stir, so he was paying no attention to the scene before him.
‘No. You were going to kill Sir Hugh and you have to pay the price.’ Edwin hoped he’d sounded firm, but he clamped his mouth shut straight away in case the chattering of his teeth should betray him.
John managed a snort, the rope not yet tight around his neck. ‘Justice, is it? And where was the justice for my boy when he had him killed?’
Sir Roger interposed before Edwin could open his mouth again. ‘That was also justice, as you well know. He disobeyed orders; he robbed a church; he was punished.’
‘He was just a boy!’
‘Boys die in war all the time.’ An unusual savageness entered the knight’s tone. ‘As we both well know.’
John bit back his retort and bowed his head. ‘Again, I’m sorry about your lad. For what it’s worth, now.’
Sir Roger said nothing, so John turned back to Edwin. ‘Bet you wish you’d dropped me in the sea now, don’t you?’
‘The sea would have spat you out, dammit!’
The hoarse bellow had come from Sir Hugh, who with his last breaths was furiously trying to raise himself into a sitting position, his wounds all breaking open again. He spat blood. ‘Traitor! The sea wouldn’t want you – you’ll burn in hell!’
John regarded the dying man coolly. ‘Then I’ll die knowing that we’ll go to hell together.’
Sir Hugh made an incoherent noise as he clutched at his stomach and spluttered through the blood foaming in his mouth. He managed a strangled roar. ‘I’ll live longer than you, by God! Even if I have to pull the rope myself!’ But the effort of speaking was too much for him, and he fell back on to the litter with blood spreading alarmingly across his bandages and dribbling through his beard.
‘I’ll do it.’
Edwin hadn’t even noticed that Humphrey was there. At a nod from the earl he stepped forward and took the free end of the rope from Sir Hugh’s sergeants, who moved aside. But he wouldn’t be able to haul John up on his own, surely?
‘And I.’ Edwin was hardly aware that the words had come from his own mouth, but he found himself moving into the open space. ‘I condemned him; I should be prepared to carry out the sentence myself.’
The earl said nothing either way, so Edwin took hold of the rope, preparing himself. The hemp was rough against his palms; he could feel every fibre of it.
A third pair of hands appeared above his own. ‘And I, my lord, for Sir Hugh is my friend.’ Sir Roger had spoken loudly for all to hear, but only Edwin and John caught the second part, whispered close. ‘And so was Peter. Thank you for being kind to him.’
John, beyond speech now that the moment had come, nodded. Sir Roger paused and readjusted the rope around his neck, moving the knot from the back to a position just under John’s left ear. ‘On my word, pull suddenly and as hard as you can.’
Edwin’s eyes met John’s for one last fraction of a moment, just as Sir Roger shouted ‘Now!’
It was over quickly. The force exerted by three men was enough to jerk John off his feet and high into the air quite suddenly, where he kicked and spasmed for only a few moments before hanging heavy and still.
Along with the others, Edwin held tight to the rope, bearing the weight and unsure whether he wanted to run away or vomit. What were they to do? Should they tie it somewhere? He looked at the composed figure on the nervous mount.
After a short pause, the earl gestured. ‘Tie it off and leave him an hour just to make sure. Then you can take him down and bury him.’
The ghost of a murmur of gratitude came from the other archers, and Edwin was glad – for John and for any future passers-by – that the body wouldn’t be left to rot, as often happened with hangings.
There were other men around him now, others taking the rope and making it fast, so he was able to stagger away. He tried to pick the hemp fibres out of his hands; how long would he feel them there? Sir Roger wouldn’t meet his eye, and Humphrey looked as bad as Edwin felt. They made their way over to the litter.
‘Father?’ Humphrey knelt down and took the callused hand. ‘It’s done, Father. For you.’
But Edwin could see that it was no use, for Sir Hugh was dead.
It was afternoon, and Edwin stared at his feet as he sat. Some of the men were half-heartedly preparing a fire, so they could get a pot over it to boil something ahead of the evening meal. Sir Roger was polishing his sword, lost in his own thoughts. On the ground in front of Edwin was a bow.
It wasn’t John’s mighty warbow, for they’d buried that with him. Nobody would waste such a fine weapon under normal circumstances, but none of the rest of the group could draw it fully, and besides, nobody wanted to touch it for fear of bad luck. So it had gone into the grave with him, into the final mass burial pit that was being kept open until they left, for more of the wounded were expected to die before tomorrow.
The bow in front of Edwin was small and slim. John had made it lovingly for his son, had taught him to shoot with it, and his son was dead. It had been on his back when Nigel told him the sorry news, and Nigel was dead. It had stood by while John taught Peter to shoot, and Peter was dead. John had carried it and cherished it until his own life had been choked out of him by a rope, an oak tree and three men that very morning.
It was cursed. As men stepped around the camp to gather wood, to stoke up the fire or to chop food, they gave it a wide berth.
At last Edwin could bear it no more. He stood and picked up the bow. It was light and balanced; a thing of beauty. ‘If any man wants to stop me,’ he announced a little more loudly than he’d intended, ‘let him do it now.’ There was silence, so he stepped forward and threw it in the fire.
He felt a little foolish after such a grand gesture, but nobody argued and there was nothing further to say. He sat down again and pulled out his letters. They were stained with the sweat he’d shed during the battle, but still more or less legible. Most worshipful husband, beloved wife …
His concentration was broken by a sigh from Sir Roger, who had put down his sword.
‘Edwin. You have served the lord earl and Sir Hugh well, again. And look at you.’
Edwin shrugged.
‘And we still have the problem of Sir Geoffrey and your mother to reconcile. Tell me, what did he actually say?’
Edwin held the letters out without speaking, but Sir Roger handed the top one back with the nearest he could come to a smile. ‘I don’t need to know what’s between husband and wife.’
He read Sir Geoffrey’s letter with care, then folded it and sat tapping it on his knee while he stared into space. Then he stood and held it out. ‘I need to talk to someone. More than one, in fact. Let me see what I can do.’
Edwin watched him go and took up his letter from Alys again.
Martin fiddled with the goblets, placing and replacing them. Adam had folded the same cloth three times, he would swear. Humphrey was likewise dawdling over his tasks, and over in the corner Brother William was sharpening his pen as slowly as he could, fumbling as he tried to keep it steady and whittle with just the one hand. Fortunately, the earl was telling little Hugh something so he wasn’t paying the rest of them much attention.
Martin could feel the sweat on his palms. There was no telling what the lord earl’s reaction was going to be. He liked to keep people off balance with unexpected ideas and suggestions, it was true, but Martin was fairly certain he wouldn’t appreciate it when the tables were turned. Maybe they shouldn’t try. Maybe – Stop that! Are you a coward? You’d give up your life for a friend but you won’t risk humiliation? What sort of knight are you going to make? The goblet slipped out of his hand and he put it down firmly and turned away. Only a few more moments. He’ll be here soon.
In fact, here he was: Sir Roger was entering the tent. Last chance to back out. No. There would be no turning back. He caught the knight’s eye and nodded.
Sir Roger took several paces towards the earl and then fell to his
knees. The other four, after a swift look at each other, did the same: Martin and Adam to Sir Roger’s right, a little behind him; Brother William, awkwardly with his bound arm, and Humphrey to the left.
The earl, as might be expected, was taken aback and did not look pleased about it. He gazed at them all, steadily, his mouth set into a straight line. Martin felt his knees starting to shake. He looked at the floor.
‘Well?’ The earl was addressing Sir Roger. ‘I assume there is a purpose to this and you are not just paying your respects?’
Sir Roger inclined his head. ‘By your leave, my lord, we ask a boon of you.’
Martin risked a look at the earl. There was no telling which way this was going to go, but just now all he did was raise his eyebrows. ‘Five boons? Do you not think that is too many for one evening?’
Sir Roger’s voice was still steady. ‘It would be, my lord, but all of us are in fact making the same request.’
The voice gained something of an edge. ‘Well? Speak, then – I can come to no decision until I know what you’re asking.’
Sir Roger puffed out a breath and Martin realised that even he was nervous. ‘My lord, we – all of us – humbly petition you to take Edwin Weaver back into your service.’
The wait was agonising. When he spoke, though, the earl’s voice was still steady. ‘Hugh. Go now to your lord father, tell him from me that I hope to see him tomorrow morning before we go our separate ways. Take your own leave of him at the same time. Return in an hour.’
A barely audible ‘Yes, my lord,’ and the boy was gone. The axe was going to fall now.
The irritation was building, but the earl was still restrained – just. ‘Look at me, all of you. I can’t talk to you while you’re staring at the floor.’
Martin raised his face and saw the earl’s gaze sweeping slowly down the line. ‘Martin, Adam. Yes. I understand your loyalty to a friend. Can’t blame you, I suppose. Brother William – he’s helpful to you, I know. But you others?’ He skewered Humphrey with a glare. ‘He couldn’t keep your father alive, could he? Why would you want him back?’