The Sins of the Father Read online

  However, it had been comical to watch him collapse as he realised how the earl had thwarted his little plan; he had simply deflated like one of the pig’s bladders the boys about the castle sometimes played ball with. Walter became smaller as the earl seemed to grow, the ferocity of his wrath making him tower. Nobody in future would seek to impugn his family honour.

  And yet, as soon as there was a break in the tirade, Walter tried to bluster his way out of it. How could he even think that would be possible? But there he was, claiming that the earl must be lying. Lying! To accuse his lord of such a thing to his face! He should be struck down at once, but Robert dared not move to intercept. Besides, the earl could easily take care of such a man. Walter was now demanding that the priest be fetched, goading the earl by suggesting that he would conveniently be in some unreachable location and unable to corroborate such a wild tale. Robert honestly didn’t know how the earl refrained from striking him down there and then.

  What he did know was that Father Ignatius was standing ready outside, having been summoned earlier by Sir Geoffrey. Robert opened the door and pretended to tell a guard to bring the good Father, and then returned to wait in silence. He watched as the two men stood square with each other. At first Walter tried to meet the earl’s gaze, but those flint-grey eyes had stared down better men than he, and eventually he dropped his gaze and shuffled awkwardly. He began to look less sure of himself as he looked around him, arms folded, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the ground.

  After some while, the earl gave Robert an imperceptible nod, and with a loud ‘I think I hear the priest now, my lord,’ he opened the door to admit Father Ignatius. With a look of grim satisfaction, the earl bade him tell his tale.

  The priest began in an uncertain tone of voice, but with the support of his lord behind him he grew in confidence. Robert listened and watched Walter growing hot and uncomfortable as he heard the words detailing the unsanctified oil with which he had supposedly been blessed, the crucial parts of the service which had been omitted. Robert was willing to wager that Walter was no scholar, and that he wouldn’t have realised that some of the Latin had been missing. No doubt his previous experience of weddings had been to let his mind wander while all that sort of thing was going on, and then to get to the ensuing feast as quickly as possible. By the time Father Ignatius ended by saying that he would be prepared to swear on any holy relic, before the Pope himself if necessary, that his words were true, Walter had crumbled completely.

  It was at that point that the earl really let loose his temper. Robert had thought that the previous burst was something to be reckoned with, but this was even worse. However, it was a fairly safe conjecture that none of it would now be directed at him, no matter what he did, so he settled back to enjoy the spectacle. In fact his lord seemed to be enjoying himself as well, gaining some satisfaction from unleashing his rage at the man before him. By the time he’d finished bellowing and cursing, Walter was reduced to cowering in the corner. The earl paused to catch his breath and then drew to a close by saying that Walter could stay within his walls exactly as long as it took to get his brother into a coffin and onto a cart, and if he was not out of the gate within the hour, he could expect to be driven out by main force. If he ever fouled the earl’s lands again with his presence, his liberty would be forfeit and his very life in danger. The regent would have no qualms in supporting him against the man who had tried to trick him – it didn’t matter how important the de Courtevilles might be to the present cause, William Marshal valued honesty above all other qualities.

  At this juncture the earl flung wide the door with a dramatic gesture to show that the interview was at an end, only to find his sister waiting outside. Robert had no idea whether her presence was coincidental or planned, but if the latter then it was a masterstroke, as Walter had to scurry out past her while she looked on in triumph. Once he’d fled down the stairs, she entered the room with a joyous smile, and brother and sister embraced.

  Walter was mortified. How had this been allowed to happen? God had abandoned him. His face was red with shame as he stumbled down the keep’s stairs. He sensed that all those he encountered were smirking at him – how many of them were in the know? He slowed as he neared the bottom of the stairs. He must compose himself before leaving the keep. It was one thing to be shamed and thrown out of the earl’s private apartments, where there were only the earl’s close associates to see, but it would be another matter entirely to be seen fleeing across the yard. If the general population were to see him, they might start to have suspicions about yesterday. He stopped and took some deep breaths. He needed to think.

  He was calmer as he went out of the door and made his way down the wooden staircase. He would take a walk in the morning air, on the pretext of going to the stable or something, so that he could consider his position. He was to blame in this for not having thought the matter through. It had been a somewhat spur-of-the-moment plan, to wed the earl’s sister. Next time he tried something he would have to consider it more carefully. His current position was weakened, but it wasn’t desperate. Warenne wouldn’t tell too many people about the incident, for fear of making his sister look foolish. He wouldn’t want to damage her marriage prospects in the eyes of the world, for fear that people might think that she’d done more than visit a chapel. If any thought that he’d bedded her, she would be ruined.

  There. That was his next line of defence. He wouldn’t tell anyone about the incident – he didn’t want to look foolish, either – but if the earl should ever bring it up against him, he would retaliate by claiming to have consummated the union. He began to feel happier as he crossed the courtyard. As he went out of the inner gate, he knew where he would go – he would pay a visit to the carpenter who had been entrusted with making the ornate sealed coffin. He cheered himself at the thought. It looked as though he was going to get away with everything. His brother was dead, and he was only one step away from an earldom in his own right. A lot could happen to little Stephen before he reached manhood. Walter thought again of his departed brother lying in a coffin. By the time he got to the carpenter’s workshop against the outer curtain wall, he was positively cheerful.

  Edwin had only rarely been in the castle’s kitchen, for it wasn’t often he had business there. The heat was intense; it was probably quite a pleasant place to work on a cold winter’s day, but now in the warmth of May it was uncomfortably hot, and it must be stifling during the summer months. Everywhere he looked there were figures scurrying, carrying huge dishes, chopping vegetables on the massive table which was the room’s only furniture, and moving things around on the vast fires. He certainly didn’t envy the scullion boys who were nearest the fire – surely they were as close to it as the meat they were roasting? How did they manage not to get burnt? His curiosity overtook him as he stopped to watch.

  A figure standing still amid the bustle was sure to be noticed, and Edwin was disturbed in his thoughts by a large hand on his shoulder. Richard Cook didn’t stand for idlers in his domain.

  He put his large, red face next to Edwin’s and bellowed in order to be heard above the din. ‘What are you doing here? We’re busy with the dinner, so you can get out if you’ve no business here.’

  Edwin had to shout back in order to make himself heard, and after he’d explained his purpose the cook drew him to one side, into a relatively quiet corner where they could at least speak at a normal volume.

  Richard looked perplexed. ‘I don’t understand. You’re searching for my missing knife?’

  ‘Yes. I think there is a possibility that it might have been used to kill the visiting earl and Berold, so I wanted you to tell me what it looks like, so I can search for it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have no trouble showing you what it looks like – it’s here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Murder weapon or no, it was taken from here a few days ago, but somebody returned it yesterday.’ He called to one of his minions, who returned in a few moments with a large knife wh
ich he handed to Edwin.

  Edwin looked at it. After all this fuss, it couldn’t possibly be the weapon he was looking for. The dead earl had a very thin, neat scar around his neck, and, although this knife was sharp – Richard would permit nothing else in his kitchen – it was very large, with a wide blade. There was no way that this had caused the injury he had seen, to say nothing of the difficulty of anyone hiding it on his person. Anyone who had had his throat cut with this would have bled like a slaughtered pig. However, it could still have been the weapon which killed Berold … but wait.

  ‘When did you say it was returned?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, before dinner.’

  Before dinner. Before Berold had been killed. So it couldn’t have been used to stab him either. Damn it.

  The cook was still looking at him quizzically. ‘Is that all you wanted? I’m grateful, to be sure, that you’ve taken all that trouble over my knife, but I must get back to the dinner, or it won’t be ready in time. Do you need to look at it some more?’

  Richard was looking at him as though he were simple-minded, and Edwin felt hot and foolish. ‘No, no, I don’t need it. I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake.’ He nodded to the cook and exited the kitchen as quickly as he could while still retaining some dignity.

  Once outside he felt both stupid and overwhelmed. All that precious time spent looking for the knife, and now he was right back where he’d started. No murder weapon, no suspects, no idea. And he had only until sundown to present the culprit to the earl. How on earth was he going to tell him that he’d failed? How would he face up to the shame? How would he look after his mother? There would be no question of the earl employing him for anything else if he failed in this, the first task he’d been set. The problems he faced whirled around in his head as his steps directed him without thinking.

  As he reached his parents’ house he looked up, surprised, having no idea how he’d got there. Well, either he was losing his mind altogether or God had guided his footsteps. The sense of dread was still there, but perhaps it was lessening: he felt only a slight reluctance to cross the threshold and had little trouble in quelling the feeling. He stepped inside.

  Peter was in heaven. At least, he couldn’t imagine that heaven could be any better than this. He was warm, dry and had a full belly, and even the unaccustomed sensation of being clean didn’t worry him overly.

  When the knight had first come into the stall, he’d been terrified, burrowing as far under the straw as he could in a futile attempt to make himself invisible. But he’d been dragged out, and was cowering, preparing himself to be struck and thrown out into the cold, when he realised that nobody was trying to hit him. This was so unusual that he risked looking up. The face looking down at him was full of compassion and kindness – the face which he’d seen the day before, when it had heralded something to eat. He began to feel more hopeful.

  Sir Roger had looked at the pathetic creature before him and felt nothing but pity. The boy was a peasant, was supposed to be beneath contempt, unnoticed as he lived out his life solely in order to serve those above him, but Roger had ever been cursed with the ability to see the peasants as people, and their hardships struck him anew every time he was faced with them. It was very complicated. How was he supposed to reconcile God’s law with the way the world worked? The bible told him to give freely to the poor, which was something that most nobles did, with greater or lesser degrees of generosity, but had not Jesus said that it was easier for a poor man to reach heaven than a rich one? Had He not encouraged His true disciples to give away all that they owned, and even to serve the poor? How was this to be, in a world where only a small number of the people even existed in their own right? He was no theologian, but he felt the fundamental contradictions of it all in a way that his fellow knights and nobles didn’t seem to. The ability to think was a definite disadvantage.

  But anyway, what all of the fine thoughts and philosophical debates boiled down to was the dirty, hungry, frightened child before him. The Lord’s word was clear on this – he must be helped, given charity. But what was charity? A meal now, to be forgotten by evening? Even a new cloak wouldn’t keep him warm forever. No, Roger needed to do something more permanent, and he had an idea.

  Thus it was that Peter sat in the luxury of the knight’s tent, having first been washed thoroughly and somewhat roughly by some soldiers outside. Roger watched as the boy looked around him, marvelling at the wooden bed with its mattress and covers, the stitched hanging which divided the tent, the chest containing what must be to him all sorts of strange items, and the stool on which he sat. While he marvelled, he ate. He crammed the food into his mouth so fast that eventually Roger had to stop him lest he make himself sick. Roger had watched the boy’s eyes open wide, and felt ashamed that surroundings which seemed plain to him should be seen as such luxury. Once the child had finished eating and had had the chance to draw breath, Roger told him of the plan he had. There was no way, of course, that he could take the boy on as page, for it was not his place and the rules absolutely forbade it, and the Lord knew how many people he would offend if he tried. No, each must keep to his allotted station in life, but within that there were … possibilities. Why should he not take on a servant? Normally he lived plainly, but it would not be out of place to take on a body servant, given that he couldn’t afford a squire. The boy would be cheap to keep – he could work for food and lodging for now, no need to worry about wages until he was older. Of course, there was the matter of releasing him from his servitude on the earl’s estate, but even with his meagre funds, Roger felt that he could offer the earl enough of a fee to release one homeless child. If he himself should have to go hungry a night or two to afford the cost then it would do him no harm – in fact it would be good for his soul.

  He explained all this gently to the boy, unsure of the reaction he would get. Would the call of his birthplace be too much? He’d surely never travelled outside of the village or its surrounding fields, and mayhap the thought of travelling far away would be too much. But he had underestimated the nature of hunger. The boy was looking at him with disbelief at his good fortune – regular food and a roof over his head. How sad and yet how comforting to know that a person could want so little. No cares about wealth or status, just a simple need to stay alive. Roger decided that they might as well start the boy’s employment now – he could speak to the earl later, there would perhaps be the chance to catch him after dinner – and issued his first order. It wasn’t difficult, merely an instruction to take out the plate and cup which he’d just used and wash them, but it was heart-warming to see the alacrity with which Peter jumped up, ready and eager to serve. Roger felt as though he had made the world a little happier, and perhaps put a smile on the face of the Lord.

  Edwin’s eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness inside the cottage as he stepped in. His mother was making the most of the weather and had the door and shutters open, but it still seemed dark after the brightness of the day outside. As he stepped over the threshold he felt something catch his shoulder, and cursed inwardly as the loose nail by the door made another tear in his tunic. He really must get that fixed – his mother, much shorter than he, might hurt her face on it. In fact there were many things he must do, if only he could find the time. The cottage might be one of the best in the village, but it still needed regular maintenance, and again he realised that he hadn’t kept up with it. The cottage was certainly not about to fall down, but the signs of unkemptness which he had noticed before were still there – a couple of patches of daub fallen off, a thinning of the thatch on one part of the roof and, of course, that loose nail. He didn’t want his mother to end up living in squalor just because he couldn’t find the time to carry out the duties of the man of the house.

  His mother came to greet him warmly, exclaiming at his haggard look. She fussed about him, insisting that he sit down and partake of the meal she was about to serve to father. Edwin realised with a start that it was late in the morning – he’d been speakin
g with William and with the cook much longer than he thought. He sat down on a stool by the warmth of the cooking fire and sank into his own misery, but the hot meal started to bring him back to himself, and he was able to think once more.

  ‘How is he?’

  His mother shook her head in silence. She now looked resigned rather than upset, and Edwin knew that the end must be near. And yet the fear was not so overwhelming. He sensed that it had started to be replaced with a deep feeling of sadness, and didn’t know whether this was better or worse.

  ‘Can I go and see him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Edwin rose to go through to the bedchamber, but turned back to his mother. ‘Why don’t you come too?’

  She demurred. ‘I have things to see to … you might want to see him alone …’

  Edwin stopped and took her hand. ‘Mother. We might not have much time left together, so let’s take the opportunity now. Come with me and we’ll all sit together for a while.’

  It was difficult to know who needed the comfort most as they sat on either side of the bed. The dying man, living his last days in pain; the widow-to-be, soon to lose her husband and means of support; or the young man worried about the task he’d been set, worried about his mother’s fate, his father’s soul, his own future. He reached out to take both their hands and they sat in silence.

  As the quiet washed over him, thoughts came unbidden to his mind. Later he would attend Berold’s burial and the Mass for his soul, and he was still disturbed by the thought that the death might have been prevented if only he’d been more alert. He cast his mind back to the last time he’d seen him alive. Berold had hailed him and had wanted to talk. But then he’d stopped, and stopped suddenly. Something had caught his eye and he’d changed his mind about speaking. What had he seen? Or more to the point, whom had he seen?