The Sins of the Father Page 6

  He became if anything even less happy when he surveyed his parents’ house from the outside. Care of the garden and livestock was woman’s work, and here everything looked well cared-for, thanks to his mother; however, the upkeep of the building was the responsibility of the man of the house, and since … since it had happened Edwin had been spending so much time carrying out the bailiff’s duties that he’d had no time to attend to the domestic tasks. The thatch looked thin in a couple of places, and there were one or two crumbling patches of daub, through which the wattle of the inside wall could be seen. Worse, one or two of the precious metal nails which helped to hold the wooden frame of the house in place looked as though they were loose, a fact confirmed when Edwin brushed his shoulder against the doorframe on the way in, and was rewarded with a sharp pain and the sound of his tunic tearing. He sighed. How on earth was he going to find the time or the energy to attend to everything?

  The dread hit him like a wall as he stepped inside, stifling him. He felt panic rise within his breast, wanted to scream and run out again, but he forced it down and swallowed it. Look around you calmly, he told himself. This is home; it is where you were born and where you have come back to every day of your life.

  There was an appetizing smell in the cottage’s main room, and despite himself he sniffed the air appreciatively, the mouth-watering odour telling him that his mother had a savoury vegetable pottage on the fire. The sense of familiarity helped to reassure him.

  The inside of the house seemed very dark after the bright afternoon outside, and he stopped to let his eyes adjust as he called a greeting. As he became accustomed to the gloom he saw that his mother’s hand was evident here as well: a bright fire, spare kindling and wood neatly stacked, the metal pot over the fire and an earthenware crock of milk standing ready in the coolest place, the corner furthest away from the hearth. How did she do it? It was as well that she was coping better than he was, or everything would fall apart.

  Mother came over to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘This will be ready in a few moments; I’ll just take a bowl in to your father. How was your day?’ She continued speaking as she returned to the fire and ladled out a bowlful of steaming pottage. ‘Did you find Robert? Your father will be pleased to see him, old gossip that he is.’ Her cheerfulness was brittle.

  Edwin stood and took the bowl from her, indicating that he would take it and trying to stop his hand from shaking. ‘I did see him but he was called away – he’s busy with all the arrivals – perhaps he’ll try to come by later, or maybe tomorrow.’ He dropped his voice lest the sharp ears in the bedroom hear. ‘How has he been today?’

  His mother’s brave façade dropped for a moment and her eyes filled with tears which she tried to hide, wiping her face with the corner of her apron. ‘Not good. He’s sinking by the day. Even yesterday he could still feed himself but now he seems hardly able to lift his hands.’ Her shoulders shook and Edwin hastily replaced the bowl on the table and moved to comfort her as she crumbled. ‘What am I going to do without him?’

  Edwin folded her in his arms – had she become a little thinner recently? – and tried to offer reassurance. He was going to have to try harder to take on the role of the man of the house. He didn’t know what to say, how best to put his feelings into words. ‘I’ll keep this roof over your head, mother, never fear. Even if I don’t succeed in becoming the permanent bailiff I’ll find some work, we won’t starve.’

  She nodded sadly and patted his cheek. ‘I know you will, dear. And I’m proud of you, never doubt it. But … your father and I have been married since I was fourteen, and I don’t know what I’ll do without him.’ She smiled wanly through her tears. ‘Losing him will be like losing half of myself, and I don’t like the thought of a long life ahead as a widow, but nor will I want to marry again. But I might well live for years yet.’

  She was right: many years younger than Edwin’s father, she was still a fine-looking, healthy woman. He didn’t know what to say, had no words of comfort to offer. But he was saved from trying by a quivering voice issuing from the bedroom.

  ‘Edwin, is that you?’ This was followed by a cough.

  His mother hastily picked up the bowl of pottage again and gave it to him. ‘Here, you’d better take this in before it gets cold.’ He nodded and moved towards the bedroom.

  And this was it. This was what he was afraid of. He stopped, the fear and the smell of sickness driving him back. It was in his nostrils, in his throat, forcing him back out. But he would, he would overcome it. He stepped inside.

  His father was lying in the big wooden bed, looking frail against the pillows which supported him, his face drawn with pain. That it should come to this! Edwin had always been aware that his father was old, comparatively speaking, but he’d always been so hale that it had never mattered. But seeing him now, struck down by illness, unable to rise or even to lift his arms, brought it all home to him. His father was as human as everyone else, and he was going to die. He was going to die. There was nothing he could do; he was powerless, so afraid, so fearful of the impending death, of having to live his life without the rock which had always supported him, had always been there during his times of happiness and despair. Gently, Edwin sat on the edge of the bed and started to spoon pottage into his father’s mouth as though he were a child. How he hated this, and how the once-strong man in the bed must detest having to be coddled like an infant. But he continued, and as he did so, he recounted the news. His father’s mind was still as alert as ever, and he enjoyed hearing of the campaign. He took a rasping breath.

  ‘So, the earl will fight? I thought he would. But Lord William will have to march quickly and send all the troops he can muster in order to prove his loyalty, having changed sides so recently. There will be much coming and going in the next few days, though I may not live to see it.’

  The fear flickered again in the corners of Edwin’s mind. He tried to protest, tried to speak in an encouraging tone about recovering to live for many years yet, but it rang hollow in his ears.

  His father attempted a derisive snort, which ended in another long cough. He managed to speak again. ‘Do not talk down to me, boy, a man knows when he is dying. I am nearly sixty years old, and that is more than enough for any man. I shall live long enough to set my affairs in order and then I shall pass into God’s grace. But I need to know that your mother will be supported.’ He looked at his son and his face softened. ‘I have faith in you, Edwin. I know you will do well, will be a fine man, a good son and a good husband and father when the time comes. I would have liked to have lived to see my grandchildren, but that is clearly not in the Lord’s plan for me.’ His voice slowed and became drowsy. ‘I am content.’

  His head drooped. Edwin looked down at his sleeping father, gently arranged his head more comfortably on the pillows, and moved back into the cottage’s main room. He sat down at the table with his mother and the two of them ate in silence for a while before Edwin stood, squeezed her hand, and left to walk back up to the castle.

  He told himself over and over again that he wouldn’t cry in public.

  The door to the great chamber crashed back against the wall as Ralph de Courteville strode into the room, bellowing for his squires. He’d been in a continuous ill temper for weeks. Things were not going entirely well for him at the moment, hadn’t been since the death of the old king. Everyone knew that he’d been a particular favourite of John’s, and the other nobles were both jealous of his position and wary of his unsavoury reputation. That hadn’t bothered him as long as John had been alive: safe in the knowledge that he would have the king’s protection, he could alienate all the other earls, and the rest of his family, and it would matter not the slightest bit. He had far surpassed his weak father, becoming an earl, and he was damned if anyone was going to take that away from him. Moreover, he needed to build from there so his son could rise even higher. But he was at his wits’ end. Patronage was everything, but how was he going to get back into royal favour?


  If he’d only had some time towards the end of John’s reign, he could have formulated some plans, but the king’s sudden death had left him unprepared for his next move, and the question of how to wheedle his way into the good graces of the present administration was a thorny one. There was no point in trying to charm the king himself – the boy was only nine and would be unable to rule in his own right for many years to come. No, the person who needed to be won over was the regent. The problem was how to go about it? William Marshal was a legend, the sort of man whose name would echo down the ages. He was over seventy years old, was the most frighteningly loyal and upright man de Courteville had ever known, and he was definitely, absolutely, unquestionably, not stupid. That ruled out de Courteville’s two preferred options, which involved either flattery and lies, or offering to perform any little unpleasant jobs which the regent might want done. No, the emphasis would have to be on honesty and loyalty, two rare qualities in these troubled times. The one factor in his favour was that he himself had been loyal to John all the way through his conflict with the barons – well, his position had depended upon it, after all – so he could use that with the regent. The best thing to do would be to uncover some evidence of treachery on the part of one of the other nobles, preferably one who’d already changed sides, so Warenne was a prime candidate. Nothing had been unearthed so far, but he’d only been here a matter of hours – something would come up. Then he would consult his mental list of those who had slighted him, and have his fill of revenge. The power would swing back his way again, and he could start to build his dynasty.

  It was nearly time for the evening meal, so he decided to change out of his travelling clothes into something more suitable, something which would ostentatiously display his wealth and power. Hopefully he could goad Warenne into an indiscretion which could be used against him. He bellowed again for his squires – where on God’s earth were they? – and went into the bedchamber. Something caught his eye, and he looked at the bed to see that there was a piece of parchment on it. Frowning, he picked it up and scanned the contents; he had just finished when Adam hurried into the room, panting an apology for his tardiness, followed shortly by David. He turned on them, waving the parchment.

  ‘What’s this?’

  They looked at each other, unsure of what to say, flinching as he neared them. Adam essayed a tentative reply. ‘A letter, my lord?’

  De Courteville, his foul mood making him even more impatient than usual, cuffed him hard around the ear. ‘I know it’s a letter, idiot boy. But who is it from? When was it delivered?’ Adam rubbed his ear, and looked at David. ‘I don’t know, my lord. I didn’t see who brought it.’

  De Courteville looked at David, who also said he hadn’t seen the letter’s bearer. Honestly, they were both as useless as each other, the one a milksop and the other forever trying to avoid his duties. He raised his hand, about to pursue the matter further, and saw them both shrink back, but he didn’t have the time for this. Abruptly he changed his mind and put the letter into the pouch at his belt, ordering them to find clothes for him.

  The great hall was crowded, probably the fullest he’d ever seen it, thought Edwin, as he tried to squeeze into a space at one of the lower tables. Even though most of the ordinary soldiers had been left outside the castle – no Berold this evening – there were still the extra knights and their squires and senior men to fit in; this didn’t leave much room for those who normally ate their evening meal in the hall, as Edwin was forcibly reminded by a sharp elbow to the ribs from his left-hand neighbour at the table, a large fellow who was squashed uncomfortably against him. Ignoring the loud military conversations which were going on about him, he looked up at the top table. Well, they had slightly more room there, but not much, and as he scanned the faces, he realised that very few of them looked happy to be there, and that whoever had decided on the order of seating – or perhaps it was all pre-determined by rank, he didn’t know, maybe he would ask William about it some time – couldn’t have made things much more awkward if he’d tried. The earl, in his usual place at the centre of the table, was chafing in between the two de Courteville brothers, and was speaking to them as little as courtesy allowed, and only in what looked like short, clipped sentences. The visiting earl, on his right, was doing very little to remedy the situation, and seemed to be enjoying the fact that his every remark – what in the Lord’s name could he be saying? – seemed to make the earl even more uncomfortable. To the visitor’s right was the Lady Isabelle, who was dressed in one of the most splendid gowns Edwin had ever seen, not that he knew much about these things, and he idly wondered why she was wearing it. Despite the fact that she was sitting next to the honoured guest, she was paying very little attention to him and seemed to be trying to catch the eye of the other brother, although that wasn’t stopping her from cramming one delicacy after another into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. To her right were the only two people who seemed happy with their lot: Sir Roger’s handsome face was alight with enthusiasm as he spoke fervently on some subject to Mistress Joanna, who was at the very end of the table. She was listening to him avidly – and Robert won’t like that, thought Edwin – and graciously accepting his attentions as he politely offered her the choicest cuts from each dish that reached them, and refilled her wine-cup.

  To the other side of the table Walter de Courteville sat on the earl’s left, although he wasn’t taking much part in the conversation as the earl didn’t seem to have much to say to him, and Sir Geoffrey, who was on his other side, was pointedly ignoring him. Edwin smiled at the sight: the old campaigner obviously had no time for such a weak-looking, weasel-faced fellow. He was engaged in animated conversation with his other neighbour, the old knight whom Edwin had seen him greet earlier; the latter was identified by his burly table-companion as Sir Hugh Fitzjohn, an old comrade with whom Sir Geoffrey had campaigned in France some years ago. The final figure at the high table was the rather portly form of Father Ignatius, and the tension which abounded seemed to have affected him also, for his usually placid face was creased with a frown, and he kept throwing agitated glances at someone towards the centre of the table, although Edwin couldn’t see who. Behind the seated figures scurried the forms of Robert, Martin and Simon, who were performing their usual services, and the visiting earl’s squires, who were waiting upon him and his brother.

  Too tired to wonder about the various undercurrents of feeling affecting his betters, and ravenous after his hectic day – the cook had been as short-tempered as ever, making such a fuss about his missing knife that anyone would have thought it was made of gold, and several brawls had broken out over the course of the day which had had to be broken up – Edwin turned his attention to the meal in front of him. The food was good: as soon as the cook had heard about his exalted guests he had made every effort to produce as fine a spread as possible, although the short notice and the large number of people may have hampered some of his efforts. Perhaps that was why he’d been even more bad-tempered than usual. Still, the outcome was worth it, and Edwin tucked into a meat and offal pie while allowing the tales of past campaigns and heroic deeds to wash over him. As soon as he could he escaped the noisy, hot, sweaty, crowded hall and headed outside into the cool air. After a few deep breaths he considered returning, but he wasn’t really in the mood to listen to the bragging of drunken strangers, so he turned to walk down to the village and return home, sighing at the worry which would await him there also.

  Martin’s stomach groaned as the earl and his guests finally rose from the table. The stuffed birds and marchpanes looked delicious, and he could hardly wait to try them. He also needed to sit down for a few moments: he was used to being on his feet all day, but all the extra running around had taken its toll, and he still hadn’t had the time to do anything about his boots. The guests at the high table started to disperse and Joanna, who had barely looked up from her conversation with Sir Roger throughout the entire meal, moved towards him. At first he thought she was com
ing to speak to him, and he tried to prepare something gallant to say, but somehow his tongue wouldn’t form the words properly. As it turned out, she merely wanted to pass him so she could walk over to the kitchen: he overheard her telling Robert that she would fetch some wine in case the Lady Isabelle wanted some later in her chamber. He watched her go, belatedly realising that the visiting squires were helping themselves to all the choicest parts of the meal. He hastened to load a trencher for himself, and then stopped to help Robert, who was trying to pile up two separate lots of food and was starting to overbalance. Martin caught a wafer neatly and cast him an enquiring glance.

  ‘I’ve sent Simon to fetch wine for our lord’s chamber: Joanna was going to get some for the Lady Isabelle, so he can take some of whatever she chooses, instead of using that terrible swill he found last time.’

  Martin nodded. Simon wouldn’t enjoy being sent out while there was still food to be had, so he elbowed de Courteville’s elder squire away from the marchpanes and took an extra piece to keep for the page. Robert had been caught in conversation by a visiting knight, but Martin couldn’t wait and moved away from the visiting squires to sit alone near the door and get some air.

  He’d just taken his first huge mouthful of capon when Simon hurtled into the hall, threw himself at him and started to gabble incoherently. Martin caught the jug of wine just before it hit the floor and listened: at first he had no idea what the boy was trying to say, but eventually he caught the words ‘Joanna’, ‘trouble’ and ‘kitchen’, so he cast his meal aside and rose to follow, Simon pulling him urgently by the hand. It was only as he entered the kitchen building and caught sight of two writhing forms in a shadowy corner that he understood.