Whited Sepulchres (21 page)

Her attention was caught by Sir Roger, who was asking if she would like the beef dish herself. From the patient look on his face she guessed he’d probably said it two or three times already, so she thought she’d better pay attention to the meal. She wondered what the hall and the food would be like at Sir Gilbert’s castle of Pevensey, which was where she and Isabelle would live after the wedding. Would it be as big as this? Surely not. Although Sir Gilbert was an important man he wasn’t an earl and a cousin of the king, not like the lord earl who had vast estates and power. She was tired after the riding this afternoon, and, added to the lateness of tonight’s dinner, she was starting to feel dozy. Her mind drifted.

As the meal drew on, the minstrel took his place again. His voice and his delivery were still as good as before, but this time Joanna hardly listened. After the emotion of Roland’s death, the ensuing scene of battle and revenge held no attraction for her, although the men at the table were enjoying it. It was a shame Martin wasn’t here – he’d probably have liked it. She had missed him serving at table, but she supposed she’d better get used to it.

A babble of sharp words erupted from nearer the centre of the table. William Fitzwilliam had obviously made some comment about the battle which was being narrated, and the Lady Ela was laughing at him. ‘Oh, William, as if you could be one of those heroes! If you were there you’d be on the end of a Saracen lance by now! Either that or you’d be hanging around the edge because you were too cautious to join in.’

Joanna caught the sharp intake of breath from the other men. Surely even the mild-mannered, browbeaten William Fitzwilliam wasn’t going to let that one pass by? But other than clench his fists under the table he did nothing; and after a brief pause, everyone turned their attention to the minstrel again.

Edwin couldn’t have heard that right. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, Hamo was going to become a monk.’

Edwin sat and gaped. He couldn’t have thought of a more unlikely answer if he’d tried. The supercilious Hamo, fussy about every little thing, preening himself in his smart clothes, a monk? There must be some mistake.

Father Ignatius smiled. ‘I see you are dumbstruck. But the Lord can inspire a vocation in the unlikeliest of places.’

Edwin still couldn’t believe it. His mouth was still open, but no words came out. He tried again. ‘Hamo? But he’s … he was … so … I don’t know, I can’t think of the word. But a monk? Really? I didn’t think he was at all pious.’

Father Ignatius looked at him in some surprise. ‘Edwin, Edwin. You’re so childlike in your innocence, and you’re mistaken on two counts. Firstly, Hamo was more godly than you give him credit for – what you saw was the outer man, but tell me, how well did you really know him? He wasn’t fulfilled in his life here, but nobody except me knew it, as he had no friends in whom to confide.’

Edwin felt ashamed. He’d already noticed that nobody seemed to care that Hamo was dead, and it seemed nobody had cared that much when he was alive, either. And he, Edwin, was as much to blame as anyone: he’d only ever tried to avoid Hamo, so he wouldn’t get shouted at or talked down to. How much better might things have been if he’d made an effort to find out more about him? But now it was too late. He vowed to himself that he would never make the same mistake again with anyone else.

Father Ignatius nodded to him, as though aware of his thoughts, and continued. ‘And secondly, although it pains me to say it, rich men don’t take the cloth because of an excess of piety – or at least, few of them do. No, they do it for power and influence. A younger son will never inherit his father’s estates, so he has a choice – he can content himself with a few offcuts of land handed down, surviving by renting out his sword to others, or he can enter the Church and become a prior, abbot or bishop of huge influence. Some bishops are close advisors of the king, and even abbots can wield huge amounts of power. The abbey at Roche is not even close to being one of the largest in the kingdom, and yet it has lands and holdings in five counties. Imagine Hamo seeing himself in charge of all that.’

Now that made a lot more sense. Edwin could quite easily visualise Hamo in a white habit with a cross round his neck, fussing over the details of the tithes coming in from all over the place.

Another thought struck him as he looked at the priest in the flickering candlelight. ‘You said a younger son won’t inherit lands. Was Hamo a younger son? You mentioned brothers earlier – what do you really know about him?’

Father Ignatius shrugged. ‘Only what he told me. As far as I’m aware, he was the youngest of four. He said that all of his brothers were dead: one was a monk and died some years ago; another had been dismissed from his eldest brother’s service in some kind of disgrace and had subsequently been killed in a brawl. And finally the eldest brother died fairly recently – he had a letter about it just a few weeks ago. He’d been considering becoming a monk and asked me on several occasions how he might go about it and how much he would need as a donation.’

As Edwin considered this, the rushlight burned right down, gave a final splutter, and went out. He realised how dark it was.

He stood, groping for the edge of the table. ‘Father, I’ll leave you now. After all you’ve done today you’ll need some sleep before the morning, and the Lord knows I’ve plenty to think about myself.’

He felt rather than saw the priest making the sign of the cross in the air. ‘God bless you my son, and may He help you find out what happened to Hamo so he can rest in peace.’

Edwin moved cautiously towards the door. Once he’d opened it there was a bit more light, but not much – the moon was on the wane. Still, he was able to see across the green towards home. He lingered over his walk in the cool air, feeling no need to go in, as he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Instead he returned to the edge of the pillory platform, where he’d sat earlier with William. It hadn’t been used for its proper purpose for some while, so it was fairly clean, the wood unstained by the mud and filth which gleeful children – and some adults too – would throw at those unfortunates imprisoned there. He lifted himself on to it and sat, his feet dangling.

After some while he leaned back, breathed in the cool night air and looked up at the stars in the heavens. The village was silent – those who laboured all day slept soundly at night – and he was a little calmer. He thought about Hamo and his plans to become a monk. It was something he’d considered himself once or twice, but as his father’s only son he’d had to put it aside, and besides, they probably wouldn’t let him in anyway. No, his duty was to marry and have sons to continue the family line, to look after him and his mother in their old age, if they should reach it. Marriage … Alys’s face appeared before him as clearly as if she were standing there, those blue eyes looking at his with what he imagined to be love, and he actually started to reach out his hand to take hers, before she disappeared back into the darkness.

The gibbet had been erected at the crossroads just west of the village, where the Thrybergh road met the one which led from Kilnhurst to Ravenfield. It was large, a frame made of thick, rough-cut beams which would be sturdy enough to take a lot of weight. Eight ropes were slung over the top, each ending in a noose which dangled limply in the morning air. A ladder leaned against one of the upright posts.

Although the day promised to be hot once more, it was early, barely past dawn, and still cool. Edwin shivered. He’d fallen into a doze on the pillory platform and woken in a panic just before dawn, wondering where he was and terrified, in his half-asleep state, of the pillory above him with its holes like two eyes and a gaping mouth. He’d staggered back home in time to find his mother just getting up, and he felt even less rested than he had before. His eyes were full of grit, and his head was dizzy as he stood with the other villagers, who had all been summoned to witness their lord’s justice. Some of them looked apprehensive, children clutching at their parents’ legs; others were belligerent, including John, who stood at the front of the group, feet planted apart, arms folded. Young John was next to him, standing firm despite his trembling legs, his young sister enfolded within the circle of his good arm.

Edwin had never seen an actual hanging before, although, like most people who’d ever travelled more than a mile or two, he had seen both fresh and long-dead corpses swinging from their nooses at crossroads, food for the crows. He’d certainly never seen such a large gibbet and couldn’t help looking at the construction and trying to calculate whether it would be strong enough.

The crowd parted as the sound of hoofbeats approached. The earl rode at the front of a procession which included Sir Geoffrey, Sir Roger, Sir Gilbert – who still looked a little dazed after the accident Edwin heard he’d had yesterday – Henry de Stuteville and William Fitzwilliam. Their squires followed behind, also mounted, though not Martin, still presumably confined to his bed. Thomas trailed along behind them on his pony. Brother William, on his mule, brought up the rear. All the village men removed their hats as the party halted and drew up to one side of the gibbet. Behind the riders there arrived Father Ignatius, on foot, followed by the condemned men, hands bound behind them, each with a castle guard on either side. Some bore bruises; some stumbled, either in pain or in fear of what was to happen, needing the support of their captors; but two held their heads high as they marched, and another struggled against his captors, scrabbling his feet on the ground and throwing his weight back and to the side in a vain attempt to free himself. As they passed, some of the villagers looked away or crossed themselves, but others shouted or spat at the men, surging forward in anger. One of the prisoners stopped and doubled over as a well-aimed stone smacked into his forehead, slicing a cut above one eye; his guards hauled him upright again and pulled him onwards, blood streaming down his face. The man who had been struggling against his captors shouted something unintelligible and tried to throw himself into the crowd, but he was prevented by the soldiers, who wrestled him back and dragged him towards the gibbet. The potential for mob violence hung in the air, but the earl held up one hand, and the villagers quietened immediately.

All the prisoners were now standing under the crossbeam, looking up at the nooses or down to the ground. The earl nudged his horse forward and spoke, without the need to raise his voice.

‘These men are enemies of our king and our realm.’ He spoke in French, and paused while his statement was repeated in English by Brother William. ‘They are outside the law and deserve no mercy.’ Pause. Nods and murmurs from the crowd. ‘They have caused damage and death to people under my care, and they will be punished accordingly.’ Pause. Growls from the village men. ‘Know, all of you, that I will protect you and that none shall break the law on my land without suffering the consequences.’ More growls, louder this time. In what Edwin guessed was a pre-arranged move, Sir Roger urged his horse forward towards the earl. ‘My lord, I beg of you to allow these men to be shriven before their deaths. Their lives are rightly forfeit, in vengeance, and the Lord shall judge them hereafter, but in allowing them to confess you demonstrate both justice and mercy.’ He moved back.

Showing no surprise either at the request or at the formality of the words, the earl nodded and waved his hand at Father Ignatius, who turned to face the condemned and began to speak the prayer.
Deus, Pater misericordiarum
…

Finally he got to
Et ego vos absolvo a peccatis vestris
, made the sign of the cross in the air over all the condemned men, and stepped back. Everyone looked at the earl, who nodded, and the guards of the first man, one of those who had been stumbling, stepped forward and placed the noose around his neck, jerking it tight. The man’s face was completely white, eyes staring past the villagers into the hereafter. One of his arms hung at a strange angle, and Edwin suddenly recognised him as the man who’d been struck with Brother William’s cudgel during the encounter on the road. With his last breath he said a few words in French, which drifted across the cool morning air. Edwin translated under his breath for the benefit of his mother and those close to him. ‘He said may the Lord have mercy on his soul.’ Surreptitiously his mother made the sign of the cross, but Edwin didn’t dare in case the earl saw his movement and interpreted it as sympathy for the outlaw.