The Sins of the Father Read online

  Thoughts cascaded through his head. Now, the visiting earl was certainly alive at suppertime, as he has seen him in the hall. And he was dead by dawn this morning, as that’s when his squire found the body. So what happened to him in between? Did anyone else see him? What was he doing? Why was he on the roof of the keep? And why would anyone want to kill him? All right, stop there. Going down the path of ‘why’ created too many questions to which Edwin didn’t yet have the answers. Think of practical things instead. What time was he killed? He needed to narrow that down, so he would have to find anyone who saw de Courteville after supper. The gates were shut at nightfall, as usual, so if it was after that then the killer could only be someone who was inside the gates – although that still left a large number of people, surely. What about all the masons? Edwin didn’t know them very well. No, they all stop work at nightfall and then go to lodgings outside the gates, so it wouldn’t have been one of them, although he supposed he should check that they all left as usual. Plus there was always the chance, as his father said, that someone who was known to the porter might have come in, and he hadn’t paid them much mind. Oh dear, he would have to go and talk to him again, and he hadn’t done that very well the last time. He was not doing anything very well at the moment – what was he going to do if he couldn’t find the killer by tomorrow? How would he tell the earl that he’d failed? And father would feel so ashamed of him … stop! Get back to the facts. What about Berold? His death must be connected. The deaths are different – he was stabbed in the back, with all that blood … no, stop that as well. What did he want to tell me? Was he on duty in the inner ward last night? Perhaps he saw someone, witnessed the earl’s murder, and that put his life in danger. But how did the killer find out that he’d been seen? That was something Edwin didn’t know, but it was reasonable to assume that was what had happened. So, someone gets into the keep and kills the earl in the night. Berold sees him, and the killer needs to murder him too so that he’s not discovered. So he need look for only one person. The task is no more difficult than it was before, it’s just that the murderer has one more death on his hands. Just? There’s nothing ‘just’ about it. A second victim, this time someone who’d done nothing wrong, a simple village man who spent his boyhood wishing to be a soldier, only to be struck down in his blood in a stable in his home village before he could ever go to war.

  But thinking of the tragedy will not help. What did he need to do now? Make a plan, that’s what father would say. So, find out if anyone else entered the castle gates. Find a weapon. Find out what time the earl was killed, or at least narrow it down further than ‘sometime between supper and dawn’. Think about who could have gone up to the keep at the same time – what was everyone else doing last night? Try to discover who might have wanted him dead – for who in Conisbrough had known the man, apart from the earl and Sir Geoffrey? Or had anyone known him before? He’d heard that de Courteville did much evil in his life – perhaps someone wanted revenge. People don’t just go around killing anyone they fancy, certainly not peers of the realm, or at least Edwin hoped not, for it would make his task all the harder. No, people normally kill for a reason, although the reason doesn’t always make sense to others. He’d known his father bring justice to a number of wrongdoers in the past, and he always looked for a cause, not just the facts of who was where, and when. But who here could have had a reason to kill the visiting earl, a man of such importance? He needed to do some more thinking.

  ‘You should be careful there, you know. Someone might decide to push you over the edge.’

  Edwin hadn’t heard the sound of footsteps, but he surfaced at the familiar voice, and moved up in the embrasure to make room for Robert. He’d spoken in English, as he always did when they were alone, claiming that he needed the practice. French was, of course, the language of the nobles, and they and their Norman-descended men spoke it to each other; but the old English tongue was still the language of the people, used amongst themselves. Edwin had grown up speaking English at home and in the village, but as he grew older and needed to help his father, and as he came into contact with more of the earl’s immediate retinue, he had perforce to learn French and was now as fluent as anyone. Robert’s grasp of English was more tenuous, as he had less cause to use it, but he tried hard and was popular among the villagers as a result. He always said that one never knew when a second language would come in useful – Edwin had always pictured him being able to give commands to his men when he was a knight – so he should continue to attempt it whenever he could. He never had any trouble communicating with Edwin, as his friend was always ready to help him with any difficulty, and besides, as Robert had once jokingly pointed out, if things really got difficult they could always speak to one another in Latin, for both had been sent to learn the language of the Church and the law at the knee of the local priest. Edwin was profoundly glad that he was fluent in French, for it had saved him embarrassment when speaking with the earl earlier that day, but he was happy now to speak and think in his own tongue. Hopefully things might become less complicated.

  Robert continued. ‘Why did you not come in for dinner?’

  Edwin sighed. ‘I needed to think. It seems that the earl has given me an impossible task.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible. Tell me about what you were thinking.’

  Edwin forbore to correct his friend’s grammar, and instead filled him in on his findings so far, few as they were, and on the thoughts he’d been having and the plan he’d made. As he mentioned his idea of finding the time of the earl’s death, Robert brightened.

  ‘I might be able to help you there.’ Quickly he told Edwin of his morning, how he’d come across Adam and heard about the letter, and how neither of them had been able to find it despite searching the chamber so carefully. ‘So you see, although we couldn’t find it, we know that he was alive after dark, for Adam saw him entering his chamber to change his tunic.’

  Edwin pondered a moment. This would be a great help, for now he knew that the murder had taken place after the gates had closed. Then something struck him. ‘Why did he need to change?’

  Another voice piped up from behind them, and Simon’s head appeared around the corner. ‘I can tell you that!’

  Robert smiled at him and ruffled his hair. ‘So what do you know that we don’t, whelp?’ He looked down good-naturedly, but his face turned grim as he heard Simon’s tale of the events in the kitchen the previous night. By the time the page had finished, his fists were clenched. ‘How dare he? God’s blood, if he were not dead already I would kill him myself.’

  Edwin agreed with his friend’s sentiments, but nodded as more things came together in his mind. ‘So that’s why Martin had a bruise on his face this morning – the visiting earl must have hit him when he came to Mistress Joanna’s rescue. And it’s also why the earl was in such a foul temper when he returned to his chamber, as your friend Adam said.’

  ‘He is not my friend – I pitied him, that’s all. But yes, you’re right. So what are we going to do now?’

  Simon spoke hurriedly. ‘That’s why I came. My lord wants you to attend him, as he wants to ride out on his new destrier. He sent me to find you.’

  Robert jumped to his feet immediately, but then turned to Edwin with a disappointed look. ‘Sorry I can’t help you more, but I must go to my lord. Tell me later what you’ve found out.’ Receiving a nod in reply, Robert hurried down the stairs and across the inner ward.

  Edwin sighed as he watched his friend’s departing back. How much more reassuring it would have been to have Robert at his side while he explored the tangled web of murder which confronted him! But it was not to be. He looked down at Simon, who was fidgeting, his eyes pleading, ready to be given a task, sent on an errand, anything that would help. His features lit up eagerly as Edwin’s gaze fell upon him.

  ‘Come on then – you can help me question the porter again.’

  ‘Really? What will we ask him? What will he know? Can I ask him questions myself? Will
he …’

  Chattering excitedly, Simon allowed himself to be ushered down the stairs.

  ‘I told you before, boy, there were no visitors to the castle last night. Now get out of my way and let me get back to my bed.’

  This was not going exactly as Edwin had hoped. He’d felt businesslike and efficient as he’d approached the gate, but the terseness of the night porter, awakened once again, had put him off, and now the man had brushed him aside and was about to walk away. A lifetime of obeying orders ensured Edwin’s compliance, and with a heavy heart he was about to step aside and let the man pass when he saw that Simon was looking at him with a disappointed face. Seeing the boy so crestfallen and looking to him – him! Edwin, son of a commoner! – for a lead, Edwin’s confidence suddenly grew and he stepped in front of the porter and stretched out an arm to prevent him leaving, much to the man’s surprise. After all, who would be more intimidating? The porter, or the earl, when Edwin had to tell him he’d failed? He certainly didn’t relish the thought of that, and the apprehension made him bolder.

  ‘Master Warin, may I remind you that in my father’s absence I am acting as bailiff, and that the earl himself has given me the task of finding the killer. So you will stay here and answer my questions.’

  The tone of his own voice surprised him, and he’d clearly taken the porter aback as well, for Warin stopped, speechless. A useful lesson in authority, then: borrowed authority at the moment, to be sure, but a firm hand and steady voice would work wonders. He felt as though the day had been worth something at last. Now, what was he going to say? He needed to sound calm and in control. Speak steadily, he thought to himself.

  ‘Now, master porter, you weren’t listening to me. I didn’t ask you if there had been any visitors, I asked if anyone had entered the gate.’

  The tone had worked quite well, but perhaps the wording had been wrong. The man was looking at him as though he was either mad or stupid. The porter sighed dramatically and spoke with heavy sarcasm. ‘And as I have already told you, Master bailiff, nobody entered.’

  Edwin felt let down. All this for nothing, then. He was about to turn away when Warin added an afterthought.

  ‘Oh, well, nobody apart from the priest, that is.’

  Finally! A piece of information! Simon was gazing in admiration at him following his masterly display, which was quite the most pleasant happening of the day so far. So much so that he never even noticed when he confidently issued a command to a member of the nobility, instructing Simon quite naturally to run to the church and find Father Ignatius. The boy scampered happily away, and Edwin turned back towards the keep.

  At the head of the stairs, he hesitated. His feelings of self-assurance had sustained him all the way into the keep, where he had entered without any feelings of uneasiness. But now he was about to go back into the chapel to inspect the body once more, and some of his awkwardness came upon him again. It was only a body. He’d seen the dead before. There was nothing to be afraid of. But his stomach was still quivering after his recent experience in the stable, and he had to force himself to step into the room.

  He was immediately taken aback to see a figure kneeling beside the body. The man turned as Edwin entered, and he found himself looking into the pale features of Sir Roger. The knight wore his customary serene countenance, but there was something else there, some degree of hardness, some steel behind the eyes. Edwin found himself staring.

  Sir Roger, surprised, recovered himself first. ‘Edwin. What brings you up here?’

  Edwin stammered, words suddenly falling over themselves as he sought to explain the task the earl had laid upon him. Facing down the porter was one thing, but this was a knight. Luckily, Sir Roger seemed understanding.

  ‘A formidable task, even for one experienced in these matters.’ He gave Edwin a shrewd look. ‘And yet, you have the look of a man who will succeed.’

  Edwin said nothing, but felt his heart swell.

  Sir Roger continued, his calm face breaking into a half smile. ‘Well, I suppose you’ll want to know why I’m here?’

  Edwin tried not to fall over his words again, and failed.

  ‘Don’t be anxious. In such a situation, all must be questioned, no matter how innocent they seem. Remember that.’

  Edwin finally managed to speak. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I was here praying for the dead man’s soul.’ The smile vanished and the look of determination returned. ‘He was an evil-doer, a sinner who is surely burning in hellfire, but every Christian’ – he spoke the word as though it were fouled by the dead man’s presence – ‘deserves some measure of God’s mercy at the last.’

  The pronouncement had the ring of the last judgement about it, but before Edwin could ask Sir Roger what he meant by his statement, the knight had left the room.

  He turned to the body, hesitating with his hand over it for a moment before respectfully removing the covering. It was stiff and cold, and he had some trouble as he tried gently to manipulate the limbs to see if they held any answers. There were none: the body bore no mark except the one on the neck, and Edwin bent over to have a closer look. He was in exactly the same position as he had been that morning when he had been so violently interrupted when another step sounded behind him. He flinched automatically, remembering the pain as his hair had been all but torn out, but it was only Martin, who entered and crouched down next to him, joining in the inspection.

  Edwin tried to sound confident. ‘It must have been this wound which killed him.’ He looked at it again – a slim, neat cut which extended around the front of the neck from ear to ear, but which was deepest at the front. Surely it was too neat to have been the work of a sword or dagger?

  Martin had the same thought. ‘If he’d been involved in a struggle, wouldn’t the wound be … messier?’

  ‘You’re right. And where is all the blood? It looks completely different from … you know.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say it, didn’t want to remember.

  ‘Perhaps someone cleaned it up?’ Martin sounded doubtful.

  ‘Hardly likely – and anyway, there’d be some trace of it somewhere.’ He thought for a moment. ‘He wouldn’t bleed if he was already dead – maybe someone smothered him and then cut his throat afterwards?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘No, you’re right. That’s a stupid idea. So how did he die? It must’ve been a really small, sharp knife, not a proper dagger.’ Something else struck him. ‘In fact, surely this was a different weapon altogether from the one which killed –’ The name stuck in his throat but he forced it out ‘– Berold? The wounds are completely different.’

  Martin didn’t reply. He was staring at the body, frowning.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, exactly. I only saw the body for a moment this morning before I had to turn away to retch my guts up. But there’s something … different about it.’ Edwin made as if to reply, but Martin forestalled him, raising his hand. ‘And don’t ask me what it is, because I can’t put my finger on it.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sure it will come back to me later, and as like as not it won’t be anything important.’ He sat back. ‘Now, what have you been doing since this morning? I didn’t see you at dinner. What do we need to do now?’

  Edwin started to tell him about the last couple of hours, but remembered that he himself had set Martin a task that morning.

  ‘Did you find any other way for someone to get into the inner ward?’

  ‘Not really. There’s one tiny hole in the wall behind the kitchen where the masons have had to remove a stone to put some scaffolding up, but it’s hardly big enough for a rat to get through. Nobody could have entered that way.’

  ‘Oh. That leaves us back where we started, then.’

  ‘Well, at least we now know that the killer must have come in through the gate. So tell me what you’ve been doing.’

  Edwin continued from where he’d left off, from his conversation with his father up to sending Simon
to find the priest. ‘So’, he concluded, ‘I believe that the key to this may rest with him. Let us see what we can discover from the good Father.’

  Chapter Seven

  Simon was hungry. As he rushed out of the gate to follow Edwin’s order, he was conscious of an empty feeling in his middle. How long had it been since dinner? Ages, surely. Not that he ever got the chance to fill his belly properly, mind – he was so busy serving that he couldn’t sit down to eat all the courses, he just had to fill a platter with what was left afterwards. No wonder he had to keep visiting the kitchen in between to filch what extras he could. Although he suspected that some of the kitchen workers didn’t mind quite as much as they pretended to, or he’d never get away with quite so many delicacies. But what could he do now? Must he starve until the evening meal was prepared? He sighed as he skipped down into the village at the bottom of the hill.

  Conisbrough was familiar to him, of course. It was not overly large, but had three main streets arranged around the green, and was important enough to hold a market each month, when farmers and traders from the surrounding countryside would come to sell their wares. There were always delicious pies to be bought, if one had managed to save a few coins. Behind the neat houses on the three main streets were some meaner dwellings, some seemingly no more than piles of brushwood badly stacked together. The ones scattered just outside the main part of the village were the worst: home to the poorest labourers, they were squat, dank hovels whose inhabitants hacked and coughed and died off in droves each winter. He was glad he had no cause to go there.