The Sins of the Father: A Medieval Mystery (A Mediaeval Mystery) Read online

  To

  K.I.B.

  for the fun we used to have.

  For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,

  visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children.

  Exodus, ch. 20, v. 5

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks are due to a number of people who helped in many different ways while this book was being written.

  First of all, my love and appreciation go to my husband, James, and our children, for putting up with me during all the time I’ve been glued to my computer; James also spent a lot of time making a beautiful electronic map of Conisbrough based on my rather sketchy, hand-drawn effort.

  Then there are those whom I approached for criticism, who gave me a great deal of feedback on early drafts which was, at times, so eye-wateringly honest that I could only look at it through my interlaced fingers: Rob Hemus, Stephanie Tickle, Roberta Wooldridge Smith, Richard Skinner and China Miéville.

  I’d also like to acknowledge the contribution of those who encouraged me to keep writing even when it wasn’t going so well, and who have listened to my endless moaning on the subject. There are many of these, but I’d like to thank Susan Brock, Andrew Bunbury, Adam Cartwright, Julian Moss and Martin Smalley in particular. Matilda Richards, Commissioning Editor at The History Press, has been an absolute delight to work with, and I would like to thank her for answering all my emails promptly, fully and with good cheer, even the picky ones!

  Finally, my thanks go to the academic who, many years ago when I first thought of writing mediaeval murder mysteries, told me (in a nice way) that all historical fiction was necessarily rubbish, but that I should at least try to write plausible rubbish. I hope that readers of The Sins of the Father find it not only plausible but enjoyable as well.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Normandy, 1203

  The boy was about to be murdered.

  He didn’t know it yet; he was aware of nothing except his own pain and misery. He could feel the cold against the side of his face and the front of his body, the dampness seeping through his clothing as he lay in the darkness on the filthy floor. The cell stank, but he’d long since ceased to notice it. Something scuttled over his foot, but he didn’t move. He kept his eyes closed, knowing that there would be nothing to see if he opened them, nothing except the blackness which had almost sent him mad. For weeks he had lain there, held in place by the weight of the shackles and chains, slowly losing all hope. Nobody would come for him.

  When he first heard the sound, he couldn’t make out what it was, and thought that his mind must be playing tricks on him. But there it was again: the scraping metallic sound of a key in the lock. As the door to the cell creaked protestingly open, he raised his head. It seemed unnaturally heavy and he flinched as the unaccustomed brightness stabbed at his eyes, attempting to move his hand up to his face; at the same time he welcomed the rush of air into the fetid space. The shadows of three men were dancing in the flickering torchlight, and the boy struggled into a kneeling position to get a better look at them, the weight of his chains dragging him down and rasping the raw flesh around his wrists and ankles. He whimpered at the pain, but it helped to waken him.

  He could barely see past the light, but gradually he was able to make out the silent visitors, and cold fear struck anew. The man on the left was extraordinarily tall, stooping, his face masked by a blank expression. He held aloft a burning torch; the other was held by the man on the right, who was looking apprehensive and sick. The light illuminated the face of the figure in the middle, who, in contrast to the others, seemed to be enjoying himself. He smiled, revealing a mouth which lacked two teeth on the left-hand side. The boy forced his bleary eyes to focus on the face and gasped. His voice didn’t want to work, but he licked his cracked lips and managed to croak one word.

  ‘You!’

  The man’s smile widened and he spoke. ‘Yes, me. And I’ve been looking forward to this moment, ever since you were foolish enough to slight me. Revenge is sweet.’ His smile gloated as his hand toyed with the dagger at his belt.

  So this was it. After the weeks of pain and darkness, hunger and hopelessness, this was the end. The fear was heart-stopping, overwhelming, trying to climb out of his throat, but he must fight it for a while longer. Just a few more moments. Remember who you are. With a huge effort of will the boy drew together the last shreds of dignity and strength and hauled himself upright, despite the protests of his battered body. If this was death, he would meet it on his feet.

  The man drew his dagger and stepped forward.

  The child was awakened by a battering at the door and the shouts of men. Mama and Papa were roused as well, and the hangings of the big bed were pulled back as they leapt up.

  Papa spoke. ‘I should have known this would happen. We don’t have much time.’

  Mama looked frightened. ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Yes. But he won’t harm you or …’ He stopped at the sound of a scream from downstairs. Mama’s hand flew to her mouth and the two of them looked at each other. Papa looked around the room, his head twisting from side to side. ‘There’s nowhere for you to hide.’ His voice sounded strange, rising in pitch as he stalked across the chamber, flinging the bedclothes aside. Mama stopped him, taking his hand, and they gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment. What was the matter? Why were the servants downstairs screaming? Was somebody hurt? Surely Papa would be able to sort out whatever the problem was and then they could all go back to sleep.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Quickly, Papa barred the door as someone outside started to pound on it. Suddenly the child was afraid.

  ‘Wait!’ Mama ran to the foot of the bed and opened the big kist which held the linen, pulling things out of it and throwing them aside. They had been folded so neatly – if the child had done that, sharp words would have followed. This was difficult to understand.

  Papa hurried across the room and bent down, his face very close, his beard tickling the child’s face as he whispered.

  ‘Listen. I want you to hide in here and not make a sound. Whatever happens – whatever you see or hear – do not get out until all these men have gone. You must obey me. Do you understand?’ The child nodded wordlessly and was swept up in strong arms and placed in the chest. Papa was twisting the large signet ring with its lion’s head off his finger and holding it out. ‘Take this and keep it safe. Always remember who you are.’ Bemused, for Papa never took off the ring, the child nodded again and clutched at it. A brief kiss from Mama and the lid of the kist was being lowered. Everything went black as the first sounds of splintering came from the door.

  It was dark and close in the kist. The child listened as men smashed the door and burst into the room. A clash of swords. Papa’s voice: ‘Stay behind me!’ The shouts of more men and an unearthly, horrible scream from Mama, ending in a strange gurgling noise. Another cry from Papa, sounding desperate. More clashing of swords and the voice of a
different man: ‘Disarm him!’. Smashing furniture and the thud of something hitting the floor, then a lull broken by harsh panting. Everything went quiet. Warily, the child pushed the lid of the kist open a crack to see if anyone was looking this way. Nobody was. The child gazed around and gasped in horror: Mama was lying on the floor in the corner, covered in blood and not moving. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Papa was on his knees in front of her, breathing heavily and being held by two mailed soldiers who were twisting his arms behind him. A richly dressed man stood over him, holding a sword. Papa looked up, his face bleeding.

  ‘I should have known it would come to this. You are the very devil in human form.’

  ‘Please. You must realise that after what you witnessed yesterday, there was no possibility that I could let you live.’

  ‘When our lord hears of this …’

  The man snorted. ‘Our lord? It was he who ordered me here.’

  Papa struggled against the men restraining him. The child had never seen him look so angry. He shouted: ‘I did what I did for the good of the kingdom! I didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to witness it even, but I realised it was the only chance for peace, to stop further bloodshed.’ His voice rose. ‘I felt sick just being there. But you? You enjoyed it!’

  The man seemed to think about this for a moment, then spoke again. ‘Well yes, maybe I did. The whelp deserved it. This, on the other hand … I’m almost sorry. Almost.’

  In one quick movement he brought his sword back and thrust it into Papa’s body before ripping it back out again. Unable to believe the sight but powerless to avoid it, the child watched as Papa slowly fell forward out of the grasp of the men, blood spewing from the hole in his body and from his mouth. As he died, his face turned towards the kist, and for one frozen moment his eyes caught those watching him before the light went out of them and his body slumped to the floor. The child stared, hypnotised, at the blood spreading across the floor and soaking into the discarded bedsheets, but was jolted back to reality by the man’s voice.

  ‘Our work here is done.’ He smiled, revealing that he lacked two teeth on the left-hand side of his mouth, and turned to walk out of the room. As he left he issued an order to his men.

  ‘Burn it down.’

  In the grey light of dawn the child wandered, dazed, through the ashes of the building. What had happened? Who was the man? Shut in a private world, the child never noticed the hooves of the horse as they approached, rearing at the last moment to avoid crushing the tiny figure. The child looked up and, for the first time in many hours, saw a kind face. They stared at each other for a long moment before the man spoke, his voice gentle.

  ‘Was this your house?’ The child nodded mutely. The man looked at the ashes. ‘Your father and mother?’ Tears started to run down the child’s face as the man registered grim understanding. ‘An evil deed. But perhaps some good may come of it.’ He leant down from the saddle and the child was encircled in one strong arm and lifted high on to the great horse. It was just like riding with Papa … the tears came again, and as the man and the child rode away from the ruins of the house, one tiny hand was clenched around the ring.

  Chapter One

  Yorkshire, 1217

  Edwin whistled to himself as he crossed the courtyard. He was in a better humour that morning. The Lord knew he had no reason to be, but he’d momentarily escaped the semi-darkness of William the Steward’s office, the spring air was fresh, the sun was shining, and he was surrounded by familiar, smiling faces, so his spirits had lifted a little. He sidestepped neatly as one of the masons swept past him without looking, and tossed one of his mother’s oatcakes from hand to hand as he continued on his way.

  And then, without warning, the fear struck him.

  The dread. It had been a constant companion these past weeks, a black demon squatting on his shoulder, and now he stopped in his tracks, the feeling jolting him, overwhelming him, making him feel sick to the pit of his stomach. Every so often he forgot about it, managed to feel happier for just a moment – or even for a longer while – but then it would return. He knew why, of course, but that didn’t exactly help. He was dizzy. Quick, find something else to think about. Look at the keep. Think of it; force yourself to concentrate on it and nothing else. Breathe.

  He considered the building, the huge whiteness towering over him as it had done since his childhood. He focused his mind. He wondered if there could possibly be a finer or more impressive building in England. Neither round nor square but a strange multi-angular shape, the design had been the idea of the old earl Hamelin, the present earl’s father, who’d had it built to replace the old wooden keep which had existed for as long as anyone could remember. Not that Edwin had ever seen the old keep – the stone one had been finished before he was born – but he could well imagine the difference it had made to the appearance of the castle. He tipped his head back to look all the way up to the top: four floors high, plus the wall walk on the roof; how could men construct such a huge edifice? And how many stones had been used in its creation? As usual, the figures arranged themselves neatly in his head, and the dread receded a little, pushed back into the recesses of his mind as he started to calculate how many stones might be in one layer all the way round, plus the buttresses of course, and how many layers made up the building …

  So engrossed was he in his reckoning that he was nearly upon the two ladies before he noticed them, and he stepped back hastily with a muttered apology to allow them to pass. The earl’s sister, as was her usual custom, swept past without a word, considering him too lowly to notice, but her companion, Mistress Joanna, rolled her eyes at him as she scurried to keep up. Edwin managed a slight smile, forgetting his own troubles long enough to wonder how she managed to maintain such a sunny disposition when she had to spend so much of her day shut up with that old … no, he should stop that line of thought immediately, lest he think something insulting about one of his betters. But still, Mistress Joanna must have to exhibit considerable forbearance to be the companion of the Lady Isabelle de Warenne, and she did it with grace and a ready smile. Perhaps that was one of the things Robert liked about her; Edwin had long suspected that the two of them might be sweethearts.

  Robert. Now, there was an idea: maybe he would have some further news about the war; as the earl’s senior squire, he had access to information to which other mortals were not privy. Besides, it might help him to keep his own mind off other matters. Where would Robert be?

  He had just set off across the bustling inner ward again when a blond head hit him at speed – painfully – in the midriff, knocking him off balance. Momentarily winded, Edwin gasped for air, but steadied himself and put out his arms to stop the boy falling. At one glance he took in the large chunk of bread in one hand, the even larger chunk in the mouth, and the nearby open door to the kitchens, and smiled, properly this time.

  ‘All right, Simon, all right, no harm done, but slow down or you’ll choke yourself!’ The boy sprayed crumbs everywhere as he tried to offer an apology, but only ended up gagging. Grimacing and wiping the front of his tunic with one hand, Edwin held him steady and then reached out and thumped him hard on the back until he stopped. ‘There. Better? Good. Now, if you can stand still for one moment, perhaps you can tell me where Robert is?’

  Simon took a deep breath and a swallow. ‘Hello Edwin I’m sorry I hurt you he’s down at the stables with Martin looking at my lord’s new warhorse I wanted to go and see him as well he’s a beauty but I had to take a message for my lord!’ Another breath. ‘Can I go now?’ Working his way through the gabbled, pauseless sentence, Edwin translated the answer he needed and released the page, who raced off across the inner ward, narrowly avoiding an incident with one of the serving-men carrying a bucket of water from the well. The encounter had saved him an unnecessary trip all round the castle, at any rate: he changed course and headed out through the gatehouse, waving to the porter as he passed, and down into the outer ward.

  There was an open a
rea to one side of the stables where steeds could be exercised, and Edwin’s eye was drawn there first, as two of the grooms were putting the finest horse he’d ever seen through its paces. The chestnut stallion was trotting in a circle, a long rein held in the hand of one of the men. Edwin drank in the sight: what would he give to be able to ride a horse like that? He’d ridden before, of course, not like some of the villagers: his father was the bailiff on the earl’s Conisbrough estate and often had to travel to some of the outlying holdings on business, and Edwin had accompanied him on a number of occasions as his assistant and scribe. But he’d ridden one of the estate’s rounceys, workaday horses which rarely travelled faster than a leisurely amble; the animal in front of him was a destrier, a warhorse destined to carry the earl in battle. It was a magnificent specimen, a perfect blend of strength and grace.

  Two other young men were watching the horse. One was more than a head taller than the other, and as Edwin drew near to them he nudged his companion and pointed, and Robert turned to greet him, the smile on his face broadening. Little needed to be said as he moved up to make room, and the three of them stood watching the animal’s exercise. After a short while scrutinising the horse’s gait, Robert nodded briskly at the grooms, indicating that they could lead it back to its stable. He turned to Martin, having to look up steeply.

  ‘Go and tell our lord that the horse is fine: no ill-effects from the journey. I’ll be there shortly.’