Whited Sepulchres (33 page)

Edwin helped Peter to get up. He was a little winded but fine. Edwin peered up towards the – now bigger – hole in the thatch. Peter gestured. ‘Go and have a look.’ Edwin made a very clumsy attempt, nothing like the boy’s nimble climb, and managed to haul himself up far enough to put his head inside. What he saw surprised him. Although the thatch sloped up towards the wall on its narrow laths, there were heavier beams supporting the roof which were level, creating a triangular space. A board had been laid across them, and a small nest of straw was on top. It wasn’t very big, but it was easily large enough to house a small boy with room to turn around and even to store food; Edwin saw the remains of what looked like a stale loaf in the far corner. But it also stank, so he lowered himself to the ground again and looked at Peter. The boy wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes. When I used it I was only there for a few hours at night time. If he’s been there two or three days, then …’

They made their way back up the alley. Martin and Sir Geoffrey were hauling the protesting Thomas away, but Sir Roger and Crispin were still there. The smith looked down at Peter. ‘So you used to live in there, did you?’

Peter stepped back to shelter next to his master. ‘Yes. When I was … alone. But not all the time – I moved around in case anyone found me.’

Crispin crouched, lowering his huge bulk, his knees cracking, so his eyes were on a level with Peter’s. He looked steadily at him, making Peter flinch away even more, but then he softened. ‘And there was I thinking it was rats. And so it was, but a different kind. Warm, was it, with the forge going?’

Peter nodded.

Crispin put out a huge, burn-scarred hand, dwarfing the boy’s shoulder. ‘Aye, well, I’m glad it kept you alive in the winter. And I don’t suppose you’ll need it no more.’ He stood once more, a towering figure but one less frightening, and moved away to start his day’s work.

Sir Roger looked at Edwin over Peter’s head and shrugged. ‘Well, you never really know … I shall say a prayer for our good smith. But in the meantime,’ he ruffled Peter’s hair, ‘well done, young man. Come, let’s find you something to eat.’ Peter unclasped his hand, which had been clutching the knight’s tunic, and looked up at him adoringly. Then they moved off together.

Edwin stood in the doorway of the earl’s council chamber. He could feel his knees shaking, which was odd, as surely his lord would have only good things to say to him. But the presence of so much authority in a confined space was still too much to be taken easily, as he suspected it would be for some time, if not always. The earl sat in his chair, his robe arranged around him, looking formal. Dear Lord, to think he might be dead now, the castle and lands in uproar, and a murderer sitting in his place. A murderer whose first act would have been to get rid of him, Edwin, as well.

The earl nodded to him and he entered. He looked at Sir Geoffrey, standing to the earl’s right, and received an almost imperceptible nod of the head. He looked at Adam, who was holding the door open, and received a smile. He looked at Brother William, sitting at a small table where the light from the window fell, who bent his head over his parchment and dipped a quill in the inkpot. In short, he looked at everyone except the earl. As he moved forward he glanced at Martin, who was standing behind the earl, and wondered what he was gesturing about. Then he understood, and sank to his knees in front of the chair, his eyes down. The rushes were fragrant, but the floor underneath was hard and cold.

‘Look at me.’

Edwin dared to raise his head.

‘You have served me well, Edwin Weaver.’

Edwin managed a whisper. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ So why did he feel like some kind of axe was about to fall?

The earl continued. ‘You risked my wrath and indeed your life because you knew you were right. Disobeying me is not commonly something I countenance, but you have my leave to do it if a similar situation should arise again.’

Edwin wasn’t sure if he needed to reply to that, but the earl hadn’t finished.

‘It is … unusual for me to accept fealty from someone who does not hold lands from me, and you can’t exactly give homage, but … hold out your hands.’

Confused, Edwin raised his hands, palm upwards and apart. He saw Sir Geoffrey mime to him, and quickly changed to put his hands together, as though in prayer. The earl put his own hands around them.

The earl was touching him. Actually touching his hands. These hands, with their golden and bejewelled rings, had dispensed justice and made knights. They had been in contact with bishops and kings. And now they were enfolding his own, which he could feel quivering. The earl’s hands were warm, dry and steady.

He looked straight at those slate-grey eyes as the earl spoke. ‘Do you, Edwin Weaver, swear to be my liege man, faithfully serving me and no other – saving only his Grace the king – until the day of your death?’

He couldn’t take it in properly. What was the correct response? What if he said the wrong thing? ‘I swear it, my lord.’

Thank God, that must have been right. The earl continued. ‘I accept your oath. In return I pledge that I will protect you and yours from injustice and harm. You are my liege man.’

Edwin felt his hands released, and he sank back on to his heels, stunned.

There was silence, and then the earl threw back his head and laughed, looking more informal and somehow younger. ‘Come now, Weaver, no need to look like a cornered hare. Stand up and name your reward for your service these past days.’

Edwin managed to get his feet under him and his body into an upright position. ‘My lord, I – ’

The earl looked him up and down. ‘I think we’ll start with new clothes and a proper belt for that rather fine dagger. Anything else?’

Edwin opened his mouth but no words came out. Fortunately the earl seemed in a good mood and gestured to Adam for wine while he watched and waited.

As Edwin saw him sip from the goblet, an idea came to him. Could he possibly ask …?

‘Ha!’ Something must have shown in his face, for the earl was leaning forward. ‘Spit it out, Weaver. I’m sure you’re not going to ask me for the crown.’

‘Uh, my lord … Might I have your permission to get married?’

There was silence for a moment as the earl’s face registered surprise. Then he put his cup down and slapped the arm of his chair. ‘I like it.’ Edwin’s relief nearly overwhelmed him. The earl smiled. ‘Others might have asked for gold, but you … yes, you have my permission, and good luck to you. In honour of my sister’s wedding I will also add to your bride’s dowry and furnish your marital home. Done?’

Edwin could hardly believe his good fortune. ‘Thank you, my lord, thank you.’ What else could he say?

The earl flapped a gesture of amused dismissal. ‘Take him away, Geoffrey, and get him a drink before he falls over.’ Sir Geoffrey bowed and Edwin felt himself being steered out of the chamber and into the stairwell.

By the time they left the keep he had recovered himself enough to see where he was going, at least. Sir Geoffrey took him to the great hall, which was empty except for one or two serving men finishing the clearing up. Sir Geoffrey spoke to one of them, and soon Edwin was sitting with the knight at the end of one of the long tables, a cup of cool ale in front of him. He was still dazed, but in the jumble of thoughts about clothes, furnishings and weddings something else surfaced. There was one more thing he needed to know before he could let go completely.

‘Sir Geoffrey, was my father ever a weaver?’

The knight put down his own cup and wiped a hand across his beard. ‘Godric? No, lad, he was the bailiff’s apprentice and then the bailiff, never a weaver.’

‘Then why did he have that name? The earl always called him by it, and now he does it to me.’

Sir Geoffrey looked thoughtful. ‘He never told you? Mind, I don’t suppose there was any reason why he should.’

‘Tell me what?’

Sir Geoffrey took another swig before settling himself more comfortably on the bench. ‘Gossiping is not a manly thing to do, but you’ve a right to know about your father’s past.’

Edwin was intrigued. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, hands under his chin.

The knight laughed. ‘It’s not all that interesting, Edwin, and it won’t take that long to tell. Many years ago we had another Godric in the village, so to tell them apart we called them Godric the tall and Godric the bailiff. Your father was new in his position then, and the name hadn’t stuck very well when we started to have a spate of nasty happenings. The old earl, may he rest in peace, set Godric to sorting them out, and he did. When he was commending your father afterwards, he made a joke that Godric had put the different strands of those happenings together better than any weaver, and that he would henceforward call him the weaver in memory of his deeds. And it just stuck, really. Our lord the earl grew up calling Godric ‘Weaver’ long after Godric the tall had died, and never knew him by any other name. I expect he calls you the same as you’re helping him in the way your father once helped his father.’ He looked at Edwin and Edwin felt himself being appraised. ‘You’re more like him than you know.’

He couldn’t have chosen any words which would have made Edwin more proud than he felt now. His heart swelled and he could hardly choke out the words. ‘I’ll try to live up to him, Sir Geoffrey.’

The knight smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You made him proud while he was alive, and you’ll keep doing so now he’s looking down from above. So go now and get about your tasks so our lord will continue to know you as the weaver of webs.’ There was a slight pause. ‘One other thing your father had, which made his life richer, was a good woman. Marriage is a game of chance – you never know what hand you’ll be dealt. But in that respect he was the luckiest man I’ve known. I hope to see you so fortunate.’

The smile which Edwin had been trying to push down since the earl had given him permission finally broke through, and Edwin felt it reach his face. ‘I hope so too, Sir Geoffrey.’ He stood and moved towards the door. ‘And one day, will you tell me more about my father and these deeds that he did?’

Sir Geoffrey nodded even as he stood himself. ‘One day, yes, but it will be long in the telling and today is not that day. Just be assured that he’s looking down on you and is proud of the man you’ve become. Now go.’

Edwin smiled, more confident than he had ever thought he could be, and walked out into the ward, where a soft, refreshing rain was starting to fall.

It was five days later when Turold arrived in Lincoln, deep into the afternoon. He was often employed to carry messages for the earl, as he was a nimble rider and a discreet man who had some small knowledge of reading and writing. He was used to travelling to castles and large estates, but now he found himself in the middle of a town, delivering a letter to somebody he’d never heard of, and to be honest he was a bit confused. Why on earth would his lord want to contact anyone here? But he hadn’t become one of the earl’s most trusted envoys by asking questions: he simply obeyed his orders and did his duty, so here he was.

Lincoln was a place of much activity that afternoon, with traders bawling their wares in the sunshine, trying to entice customers towards them; there also seemed to be a fair amount of building work going on in various places. He’d already got lost twice in the maze of streets, before enquiries at a local tavern – which looked inviting enough to be his home for the night – had set him in the right direction. As he guided his horse down a steep slippery hill he looked again at the missive. He was looking for someone called Alys, who was the daughter of the late Nicholas Holland, and she would be running a fabric shop in a street called the Drapery.

He found the street, and after further enquiry about where to find the Holland shop – not to mention a number of curious glances from the townsfolk at the livery he was wearing – he arrived at the building and saw two small boys playing in the street outside the door. On seeing him, the younger of the two fled inside, but the elder stood and looked at him boldly.

Turold hailed him. ‘You look to be a likely lad. Is there somewhere near here where my horse can drink?’

‘Yes sir,’ came the reply, ‘there’s a trough just down the road which the pack animals use.’

He dismounted and tossed his reins to the boy. ‘Take him there and bring him back, there’s a good lad, and you shall have a halfpenny.’

Looking as though he could hardly believe his luck, the boy caught the reins and led the horse down the street, standing tall and proud to be the focus of his neighbours’ attention.

Turold stepped into the shop, adjusting his eyes to the darkness after the bright light of day outside, and after a few moments a girl who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age stepped through from the back room to greet him.

He looked at her, glanced once more at the direction written on the letter, and looked up again.

‘Are you the mistress here?’

She nodded. ‘Yes sir. How may I serve you?’

‘I have a letter for you.’ He held it out.

She looked uncertain and did not extend her hand to take it. ‘A letter? For me? Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m sure that can’t be right. Would you mind waiting a moment while I fetch my husband?’