Give Up the Dead

by C. B. Hanley

  Humphrey managed to get past the hurtful reminder without reacting, although he did flush. ‘My lord, neither Edwin nor anyone could stop my father from fighting through the thickest press of the battle, and nor would I have wanted them to. It was his life. But what Edwin did was precious: he stopped him from being shamefully murdered in his bed. Thanks to him, my father saw justice done and died proudly of the wounds he sustained in battle.’ The pain showed through as he risked a final defiance. ‘In your service, my lord.’

  The earl made no immediate reply, turning instead to Sir Roger. ‘And you?’

  ‘My lord, Edwin is a good man, an honest man. He owes everything he has to you, and that makes him devoted to your service —’

  ‘Ha! Honest, you say? What of this deception with his mother?’

  Sir Roger ploughed on. ‘My lord, I truly believe that Edwin had no idea of this marriage plan – that the news was as much a surprise to him as to you.’ He faced only a stony silence, so he made his last throw of the dice. ‘My lord, you are known as a just man. You would never, I am sure, blame a man for something he did not do. If you are unhappy with the situation, please, I beg of you, take it up with Sir Geoffrey and forgive Edwin. Take him back.’

  Martin realised he was holding his breath. Dear Lord, this was risky in all sorts of ways. To start with, they were all perfectly aware that the earl would be happy to blame a man for something he hadn’t done if it suited his purposes, but he saw himself as upright and wouldn’t appreciate being given any hint otherwise. Secondly, in deflecting the blame away from Edwin they were dropping Sir Geoffrey squarely into the earl’s sights. But it was the lesser evil: his shoulders were broader than Edwin’s, and the situation had been of his own making, after all.

  There was still no outburst. Instead Martin found the earl pointing at him. ‘Fetch him here. Now.’

  Edwin knelt by the grave. He’d said a prayer for the souls who had left their bodies beneath this earth, far from their homes, and he pleaded for their swift passage through purgatory. Especially Peter and D– Edith, as he could say to himself in the silence of his own mind. They’d been shriven on the morning of the battle along with everyone else, thank the Lord; most of the priests had remained ashore. And surely God would ease the path of children?

  Now he was praying for himself. What was he going to do? He was no longer part of the earl’s household, but he couldn’t stay here, at the other end of the kingdom. He was no longer part of Sir Hugh’s household, either, for Sir Hugh was gone; Edwin had been there when the shroud was wrapped around his cold, grey face, and had watched as the nails were hammered into the coffin. No mass grave for a knight; he would go back to his manor to sleep in the familiar earth of home. Home. The dead man had one; Edwin didn’t. Could he possibly tag along and follow the Conisbrough men north? The earl might not notice, as he was going to Lewes himself, and once he got back he could speak with Alys, with Mother, and – dear Lord – with Sir Geoffrey to see what could be done. Would he even be able to keep his house, the home he’d promised would be his wife’s to share? Would he —

  A tap on his shoulder roused him and he looked up to see Martin.

  ‘Stand up and smarten yourself up. My lord wishes to see you.’

  ‘What? What for?’

  Martin paused. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure whether we’ve made it better or worse. If worse, I’m sorry. But we all pleaded for you.’

  ‘For me? Who? Sorry, what are you saying?’

  Martin hauled Edwin to his feet and ineffectually brushed at his tunic. I’ll tell you on the way. But come on – it won’t help if we keep him waiting.’

  By the time Edwin entered the pavilion he was both overcome with gratitude that five – five! – men had put themselves at risk for his sake, and terrified of what the earl was going to say to him. He was there sooner than he expected or wanted to be, so there was nothing for it. Trying to keep his eyes away from those standing at the edge of the space, lest he burst into embarrassing tears of thanks, he fell to his knees before the earl. He had no weapon in his hand, at least – though a lord didn’t need a sword to cause a man’s death, as Edwin well knew.

  The earl leaned forward. ‘Speak truth to me now, Weaver.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.’ He’d never spoken anything else – but whether he was going to be believed one way or the other was yet to be seen.

  ‘It is the belief of Sir Roger here that you did not know of this proposed marriage between Sir Geoffrey and your mother. Is that true?’

  ‘I had no idea, my lord, I swear it.’

  The earl drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘You must have known something. Come now – the truth!’

  Ignoring the atmosphere in the room, Edwin sat back on his knees and thought. What had he known? Or what should he have guessed at? He risked looking the earl in the eye. ‘I knew that Sir Geoffrey and my father were friends, my lord. I knew that Sir Geoffrey promised my father when he was dying that he would let no harm come to my mother. But I thought … well, that’s the sort of thing Sir Geoffrey would say, wouldn’t he? Protecting people is what he does.’ He knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop now that the thoughts were streaming out. ‘As to the rest, I …’

  It hit him like a hammer. ‘It’s been right there in front of my face, hasn’t it? And I never saw it. I’ve been completely blind.’

  The earl now had an air of puzzlement, as well he might, for Edwin supposed that not many men in danger of their lives or livelihoods tended to rattle on to themselves while on their knees before him. ‘Sorry, my lord.’

  The tapping on the arm of the chair continued. Edwin stayed where he was. The earl had very fine boots, and the rush matting of the floor was interwoven in a pattern that was almost mesmerising.

  The noise ceased. Edwin held his breath. This was it. His future.

  ‘Very well.’

  Very well what? What did that mean?

  ‘I accept that you did not know of this foolishness. I also recognise that a man who gains the respect and loyalty of his companions is worth having around. You may take up your position again.’

  Air was expelled from numerous mouths all at once, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to grip less tightly around Edwin’s head. He should thank the earl, he should get up and take what was being offered. But if others took risks for him, why should he not do so for another? The words came out before he could stop them. ‘And what of the marriage, my lord?’

  He’d done it now. And he’d been so nearly home. Martin was wincing and even Sir Roger was shaking his head.

  The earl was staring at him in disbelief. ‘You don’t seriously …’

  Edwin shrugged. He’d been cast out once already. Could it be worse a second time?

  ‘The rest of you – out!’ There was no gainsaying; the others slipped from the pavilion one by one, Sir Roger still shaking his head and Martin giving him one long, last significant look. His friends had saved him, and he’d thrown himself back in the mire.

  It was too late to do anything about it now, anyway. Should he duck? Should he run? He remained with his knees fixed to the floor.

  The earl was giving him a long, considering look, and Edwin boldly matched his gaze – he couldn’t make things worse than they already were.

  ‘You have some nerve, Weaver.’

  Edwin said nothing.

  The earl let out an exasperated noise and reached out his hand, snapping his fingers for wine. Realising there was no squire or page in attendance, he got up himself and poured it before re-seating himself, taking a gulp and glaring at Edwin again.

  Edwin let the silence develop, and eventually the earl sighed. ‘Right. Here is what we are going to do. You will head back north with the men of Conisbrough. You will take Sir Hugh’s body with you. I can’t spare Humphrey, he’s too useful – God knows I’ve never had a better organised household campaign – but you can return his father’s body to his manor and give the news to his
elder son. Tell him Sir Hugh died in my service and there will be no issues with his inheritance. Got that?’

  Edwin nodded. It was a shame the earl hadn’t said something along those lines to Sir Hugh before he died, so that he might not have gone to his grave thinking he’d brought shame on his lord. But it was too late now.

  ‘You will then go to Conisbrough. You can tell that old dog Geoffrey … ach. Tell him that he does not have my blessing but he may marry if he chooses, and I will recognise any heir to his manor. His wife will not sit at my table while I am in residence but she may otherwise share his bed and board at the castle. Clear?’

  Edwin nodded again. It was better than he could have hoped for, and please God he could make some sense of it once he could speak to them both in person. And he would be going back to Alys and a roof that was safe over her head.

  The earl now relaxed back into his chair. ‘I will go to Lewes with the rest of the household, but I will be back at Conisbrough for Christmas, by which time I expect my hall to be finished – you and Geoffrey can hurry the masons along between you, I’m sure. And there’s no point you then coming back south and north again – you’d just spend all your time on the road. Remain in Conisbrough, see to it that the new bailiff settles in and has all he needs. Now there is to be peace in the land I can no doubt manage without your … skills for a few months.’

  Edwin was reeling. None of this could have worked out better if he’d planned it, and he gave fervent thanks to God.

  ‘Go on, now, get out of my sight before I change my mind. And send the others back in.’

  Edwin rose and stammered his thanks as he stumbled towards the door, knees a little stiff.

  Once outside he allowed the smile that had been hiding to emerge and spread all the way across his face, and he had to restrain himself from skipping, which would have looked inappropriate to say the least. But in his head and in his heart he was dancing.

  There was peace, and he was going home.

  Historical Note

  The naval engagement known as the Battle of Sandwich took place on St Bartholomew’s Day, 24 August, in the year 1217. It was just over two years since King John had agreed and then reneged on the document known to us as Magna Carta, and about eighteen months since Louis had first arrived, at the behest of many English barons, to replace him on the throne. In the meantime John had died, at which point many rebels switched their allegiance from Louis to John’s 9-year-old son Henry. A combined force of French and baronial troops had been defeated at Lincoln in May 1217 (as depicted in one of Edwin’s earlier adventures, The Bloody City), but Louis himself had been at Dover with half his army, so all was not lost. He returned to London to consolidate and plan, and awaited reinforcements from France that were being mustered by his wife, Blanche of Castile, who happened to be King John’s niece.

  The fleet set off from Calais. If it had reached London and joined up with Louis’s existing forces, he would probably have been in possession of sufficient resource to carry the day; England would have been ruled by King Louis I rather than King Henry III. Therefore, it was imperative that the ships be stopped before that happened, which meant preventing them from landing and blocking their route up the Thames to London.

  Sandwich is today several miles from the coast, but in 1217 it was a sea port, and William Marshal, the regent, called all the nobles who were loyal to the young king to assemble there to form an army that would take to the sea. His main problem in this endeavour was that ‘loyalty’ was something of a nebulous concept; many of England’s nobles – including the Earls Warenne, Salisbury and Arundel – had already switched sides more than once. The great men of the realm were fighting as much for their own positions as they were for their king, and if they felt that they would be better served by having Louis on the throne, or by removing their peers from the picture, they would take steps to ensure the correct outcome.

  Earl Warenne’s personal role in the battle was less glamorous than the one he plays in this book. A contemporary French chronicle called the History of the Dukes of Normandy and the Kings of England tells us that he ‘fitted out a ship with knights and men-at-arms where his banners were’, but that he did not embark himself. A famous illustration of the battle by the thirteenth-century historian Matthew Paris includes the figure of Warenne standing with the regent and others on the shore while the engagement takes place out at sea. His ship did take an active part, though, as described here: it was commanded by Richard Fitzjohn, who was both King John’s illegitimate son and Warenne’s nephew (I’ll leave you to work that one out for yourselves …). The description of the earl taking on three knights as he boarded the enemy ship is based on a specific account of the event from the contemporary History of William Marshal, the protagonist actually being one Reginald Pain, a knight of Guernsey.

  The English fleet, as depicted here, initially headed out to sea and passed to the south of the French; however, by dint of excellent seamanship, they came about and then approached the French at speed with the wind and the sun behind them. Warenne’s ship was the first to reach the French command vessel, known as the ‘great ship of Bayonne’ – which was so loaded down with men, horses, baggage, treasure and the pieces of a trebuchet that it was barely out of the water – followed by the huge cog belonging to the regent. It is not clear who commanded this vessel in Marshal’s absence, so I have felt free to give the role to the Earl of Salisbury, who was the young king’s uncle. All of the principal sources for the battle agree that lime was flung at the French before the ships engaged, blinding and choking those on board; Matthew Paris’s illustration shows archers shooting balls of it. The great ship was rammed, and then grappling hooks were thrown as they were lashed together; the English boarded and carried the day in a crowded and brutal encounter.

  After the battle was over, the French common soldiers and sailors were massacred. A group of bloodthirsty men from the English fleet did attempt to kill the knights as well, but they were saved by the English lords for ransom; thirty-six French knights were captured from the command ship, including their leader Robert de Courtenay, a kinsman of Prince Louis. As the ranking nobleman he (and his ransom) were claimed by the avaricious William Marshal, who had already awarded himself most of the lands belonging to the late Count of Perche who had been killed at Lincoln. Hubert de Burgh, having overshot the turn, sailed serenely back into the carnage just as it was all over, capturing two ships for his own gain.

  Eustace the Monk, ‘the wicked pirate’, was dragged out from where he was hiding in the depths of the ship’s hold; he did make a huge ransom offer but must have known his life would be forfeit. The History of William Marshal says that he was offered the choice of being beheaded on the trebuchet or beheaded on the rail; nobody knows what his answer was, but the sentence was carried out by one Stephen of Winchelsea, and the severed head was later paraded on a spear around the towns of the south coast that he had terrorised for years.

  As is usual with mediaeval battles, estimates of casualties vary wildly between sources. The History of William Marshal, keen to embellish the victory, claims 4,000 dead ‘not counting those who jumped into the sea and were drowned’, while the French History of the Dukes of Normandy plays it down and says that only Eustace’s flagship and some smaller vessels were captured at all, with all nine of the other large ships making it back to Calais. What is clear is that much money and treasure, intended for Louis to pay his troops, was captured: members of the victorious fleet shared it out ‘in bowlfuls’ and there was still enough left over to endow a hospital dedicated to St Bartholomew in Sandwich.

  Some of Give Up the Dead’s characters are based on real historical people, including William and John Marshal, Eustace the Monk and the Earls Warenne, Salisbury and Arundel. Arundel did have seven daughters and two sons, the younger called Hugh; he was aged around seven in 1217, although there is no evidence either way as to whether he was a page in Warenne’s household. However, it was the custom for noble boys to be sen
t away to train with their father’s lords or allies, and Hugh was in later life closely linked with the Warenne family, so I thought this arrangement plausible.

  The rest of my cast is fictional: Edwin, Martin, Adam, Brother William, Humphrey, Sir Hugh, Sir Roger, and all the other squires and men. However, the make-up of the earl’s retinue and – with the possible exception of Edwin – the parts that each of these characters play in it are based on what we know of noble households at the time. An earl had knights who owed him service; they in turn had men of their own who might be mounted sergeants, foot sergeants or archers, depending on their wealth and resources. Any army on campaign would number non-combatants such as grooms and cooks among its population; an earl would have a clerk and a marshal to deal with his correspondence and his travel arrangements respectively.

  The attack on the camp in the absence of the royalist army is entirely fictional. However, such things did happen, and Louis did have men on the ground in the south-east, so it would not have been a bad tactic under the circumstances. If they had managed to kill or capture the king or the regent – who, as we know, remained on shore – then the defeat at sea would have been negated. Many of the victims in any thirteenth-century war, whether in battle, siege or plundering attack, were children or other non-combatants. Much is made of the concept of ‘chivalry’, but at the time this was simply a code that sought to govern the behaviour of knights towards other knights; anyone else, and particularly anyone not rich enough to pay a ransom, was afforded no such protection.

  Conditions in an army camp were generally unhealthy, as might be expected when a large number of people and animals were camped in close proximity with little proper sanitation. Outbreaks of food poisoning were common, as were diseases such as dysentery; indeed, on some campaigns the casualties from sickness outnumbered those from combat. Such large groups found it difficult to carry with them all the provisions they would need, so foraging in and/or plundering of the local countryside was an accepted tactic – albeit a seemingly counterproductive one when the war was being fought in your own country.