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  Conisbrough was familiar to him, of course. It was not overly large, but had three main streets arranged around the green, and was important enough to hold a market each month, when farmers and traders from the surrounding countryside would come to sell their wares. There were always delicious pies to be bought, if one had managed to save a few coins. Behind the neat houses on the three main streets were some meaner dwellings, some seemingly no more than piles of brushwood badly stacked together. The ones scattered just outside the main part of the village were the worst: home to the poorest labourers, they were squat, dank hovels whose inhabitants hacked and coughed and died off in droves each winter. He was glad he had no cause to go there.

  He admired the church as he drew near to the village, for it was built in stone like the keep of the castle, although it was actually by far the older of the two structures. Edwin’s father, who was the oldest person he knew, had once said that when he was small, he remembered his own grandfather telling him that the church had been of stone even as far as he could remember, so that was as far back in the distant reaches of time as anyone was likely to reckon. Although it was so old, it was kept in regular repair by the men in the village, and the new thatch on the roof shone brightly. There would not be many places which could boast such a fine church.

  The village also had its fair share of fine houses, for among the single-room dwellings which were home to the labourers and their families there were some which were larger and had separate rooms inside for living and sleeping. One of these belonged to Godric Weaver and his wife Anne, Edwin’s parents, and Simon slowed as he passed it, looking at the garden with its neat rows of vegetables and herbs. Nothing that grew under Edwin’s mother’s jurisdiction would dare grow out of line. He stopped to look over the fence which separated the garden from the enclosure where she kept her livestock, in case there might be a couple of eggs there. Not that he would think of taking them, of course, but if he took them in to her she might reward him with one of her oatcakes. His mouth watered at the thought. However, she’d obviously completed her chores there already: there were no eggs to be seen, but the four hens scratched around contentedly, the two young pigs which would provide next winter’s meat were happily rooting through a trough of swill, and even the cow looked as though she’d already been milked. He sighed, and half thought of entering the cottage anyway; Mistress Anne was always very friendly. But then he remembered that Edwin’s father, the bailiff, was very ill, so he decided better of it and carried on along the street.

  As he continued towards the church, he smelled the delicious aroma of new bread and slowed, sniffing the air. The scent was issuing from one of the neat cottages around the green, and as he watched, a shutter opened and the goodwife placed some flat loaves to cool on the sill. As she saw him gaping she smiled and spoke. ‘It’s young master Simon, isn’t it? The earl’s page?’ Simon took a moment to adjust to the English language, and then agreed that he was, and she smiled. ‘I expect you’re hungry?’ He nodded. ‘Ah, I know boys, and boys are always hungry. You have much growing to do, I am sure. Here.’ She took one of the loaves and tore the end from it, handing the warm hunk to him. ‘You take that and be on your way.’ She patted his cheek as he thanked her and turned away. The bread smelled delicious and it made his mouth water as he tore it in half. He would have some now and save the rest for after he found Father Ignatius. He stowed one piece safely in his tunic and crammed the rest into his mouth.

  His stomach satisfied for the moment, he remembered his quest. Why was it he was trying to find the priest? Oh yes, Edwin had asked him to do it so they could find out why Father Ignatius had been into the inner ward after dark. There was also another thought which Simon tried to catch, something about people getting in and out of the keep during the night, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Still, Edwin would probably work it out – he was very clever. It was fun working with him for a change, very different from being with Robert and Martin of course, but not in a bad way. But Edwin wouldn’t be going with them on the campaign, so he’d better sort out all his answers before they went – that was what his lord had said.

  The thought of going on the campaign and seeing real battles made him so excited that he became hungry again. Perhaps just a little more of that bread? It wouldn’t be greedy if he didn’t eat all of it. He pulled it out from his tunic and tore off another small corner, virtuously putting the rest back. He chewed reflectively as he arrived at the church. As he entered the cool stone interior, he smoothed the crumbs from his tunic and took off his hat, turning it round and round in his hand as he blinked to accustom his eyes to the gloom. The church was empty. Or at least, it was empty of the living.

  In the centre of the space a shrouded figure lay on a board. The face was covered, but Simon knew it was the man-at-arms who had died in the stable earlier that day. He took a step forward, but didn’t want to go too close: a sticky pool of blood had oozed out from underneath the body, and flies were buzzing all around it. Simon stood for a moment, wondering what really did happen to you after you died, and how you could go to heaven and live there nicely forever when your body looked like the stinking corpse before him. The man would be buried on the morrow, put in a pit in the ground like many others before him, and spadefuls of earth shovelled over what had once been his living body.

  He shivered suddenly and wished to be away from the place, the body, the scent of death. He edged around the church, giving the putrid object in the middle as wide a berth as possible, and made his way to the door to the sacristy before knocking hesitantly. ‘Father?’ He poked his head around the door, but the sacristy, too, was empty. Strange. He went back outside and walked around the churchyard, weaving in and out of the hummocks of grass and the wooden crosses, calling the priest’s name, until he reached the timber-framed cottage behind the church. Here he knocked again, and was pleased when the door opened to reveal Agnes, Father Ignatius’s housekeeper. Before Simon could speak she forestalled him.

  ‘Have you seen the good Father?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you seen him? Is he up at the castle? If he’d been up there this morning he would normally have returned by now, for he doesn’t often stay to dinner.’

  ‘But I’ve come to look for him here!’

  They looked blankly at each other for a moment, before voicing the same thought. ‘So where is he?’

  This was not good. This was definitely not good. How was he going to explain to Edwin that he’d failed to find the priest? And where was he anyway? He should be here, in Conisbrough, at his church. He poked his head back inside the church on the way back to the castle, in case Father Ignatius had been in there all the time, but eventually realised that he would have to go back and tell Edwin that he’d failed. He kicked a stone crossly along the street.

  As Simon sulked back through the village, he heard a commotion coming from one of the cottages. It was the one he’d stopped by earlier, where the woman had given him some of the freshly baked bread. He stopped just around the corner to watch. The woman was coming out of her house, holding a small boy painfully by one ear and screeching at the top of her voice. ‘You filthy, thieving little animal! How dare you steal from me! I don’t bake good bread to waste it on rogues like you! I should have you up before the court for robbery and see you flogged!’ With each exclamation she shook him, still holding on to his ear, almost lifting him from the ground, and Simon winced in sympathy. She ended her tirade by giving the boy a stinging slap in the face and pushing him away, hard, so that he fell in a ragged snivelling heap. She stepped forward and raised her hand again, but as he cowered away she merely tutted in disgust and withdrew into the cottage.

  Simon stepped out of his hiding place and offered his hand to the boy to help him rise. Obviously fearing that he was about to be struck again, the boy initially tried to scrabble away backwards, but then he overcame his fear and took the proffered hand. As he stood, Simon surveyed him. It was difficult to tell his age, for he
was so dirty that his face could hardly be seen. About Simon’s own age, perhaps, or possibly younger. Certainly much smaller and thinner, and all bent and twisted, as though he was old before his time. Simon had always thought himself to be small, surrounded as he was daily by grown men, but now he was conscious of his size, feeling unusually large and well-built next to the scrawny boy. He looked uncomfortably at the other’s pinched unhappy face, ragged clothes and bare feet, aware of his own fine garb and sturdy boots. He essayed his English again.

  ‘Why was she shouting at you?’

  The boy looked at his feet, unsure of how to respond. He mumbled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was hungry, sir.’

  Nobody had ever called Simon ‘sir’ in his life, and to his surprise he found that it felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘Why? When did you last eat?’

  ‘Yesterday. A man gave me some old bread.’

  Simon couldn’t believe his ears. Yesterday? Why, the boy must be ravenous! How had this happened?

  ‘Where are your family? Why have you not eaten? Where do you live?’ He was filled with indignation that the boy’s mother had not seen fit to feed him – had he performed some misdeed for which he was being punished? Simon could sympathise there, of course, but he would take a beating any day rather than being deprived of food.

  ‘They’re dead. I don’t live anywhere – just … round here.’ He gestured half-heartedly, his arm encompassing the whole village.

  This was terrible. That this should happen in Conisbrough! He would tell the earl straight away, and he would see that the boy was clothed and fed. In the meantime … ‘Here.’ He held out the other piece of bread which he had saved, the injustice of the situation striking him. The woman had given him some bread freely, as she thought he was hungry. And so he was, but he’d already eaten a hearty meal that day at dinner, to say nothing of the wafers he’d charmed from one of the kitchen servants earlier. But here was a boy who was really starving, and she had turned him away with threats and blows. It wasn’t fair. Was this because he was noble and the other wasn’t? He’d always taken his position for granted, but now it was beginning to dawn upon him that he was more privileged than most.

  The boy was looking at him as though he were an angel, unable to believe his luck. Then he snatched the bread and crammed it into his mouth as fast as he could, nearly choking on it, before his saviour could change his mind. Simon watched him, all his own appetite gone, thinking to himself that he would never consider himself hungry again. As soon as the boy had finished, he backed away a couple of steps and then turned and fled, before Simon could ask him his name.

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘I mean he isn’t there.’

  Edwin and Martin had waited for Simon in William Steward’s small office behind the great hall. The boy had looked very thoughtful as he arrived, and, crucially, he wasn’t accompanied by Father Ignatius. Now he confessed to his failure in the task. Edwin noticed how downcast the little figure was, and searched around for something to cheer him. Simon normally liked it whenever he came in here, for it smelled of the spices which were kept locked away in great kists around the walls. Edwin’s eye fell on something which hadn’t yet been put away. ‘Look, William has just had some new cones of sugar delivered. He might let you break the tip off one if you ask.’

  ‘I don’t want any.’

  Martin gaped. Edwin thought he must have heard wrongly. ‘Did you just say …’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want any.’ The piping voice was firm. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Edwin blinked, and thought to himself that the boy’s failure to find the priest must have affected him more than he’d thought. He tried to offer some comfort. ‘Never mind. Father Ignatius has probably gone out to see some parishioner in need – a sick man, perhaps, or a poor family. We’ll find him later.’ Simon looked marginally brighter. Edwin sighed. He might have succeeded in cheering Simon up, but the task loomed ever more impossible. A rising tide of panic threatened to engulf him, but he fought it back, determined to tackle the problem logically. Somebody had crept up the stairs of the keep, onto the roof, and murdered a man in cold blood. The same person had then stabbed an innocent man in the back, in the middle of the day in a crowded outer ward.

  He thought again of Berold’s death, as he had again and again since he’d been summoned to the body. The weight of the guilt threatened to crush him, added to the other worries and cares already piled on his sagging shoulders. Could he have stopped it, would he have prevented it if he’d only made Berold stay and tell him what was on his mind? Perhaps if Berold had unburdened himself, made public what he knew, he wouldn’t be dead. But this just circled around to the same question again – who had killed him? And who had killed the visiting earl? The same person, surely, but it could be anyone.

  Actually, that wasn’t the case: it had to be someone who was within the wider castle that day, but it was also someone who had been within the inner walls after the gates were closed. Well, that was a start. ‘We’ll make a list of everyone who was in the inner ward after nightfall.’ He went to a kist in the corner and took out parchment, pen and ink, and returned to sit at the table. He sighed. ‘Come on then.’

  It was some while later when Edwin sat back to look at the ink-stained parchment in front of him. The list was long indeed, including all the extra guests who had stayed in the hall the night before. ‘This is hopeless.’

  Martin and Simon said nothing. Simon stiffened suddenly, looking towards the door as someone approached. It was Mistress Joanna. She hesitated by the entrance and cleared her throat. ‘I … was just wondering if there was anything I could do to help.’ There was silence for a moment, then she confessed in a rush. ‘I’ve been walking up and down outside, wondering if I dare disturb you, but I couldn’t stand the thought of another long afternoon at my embroidery while there were so many other things going on. I know it’s not usual, but …’

  Edwin thought to himself that it was not exactly usual for someone like him to be in charge of anything, so to involve a lady as well probably wouldn’t make that much difference. Any new thoughts would be welcome, the way he felt at the moment. But on the other hand, he was unsure of how to address her, or on what terms she had joined them. ‘Mistress, er …’

  Martin saw his confusion and explained to Joanna that they’d been making a list of everyone who might have been in the castle, as only these could have accessed the keep.

  She nodded. ‘May I see it?’

  Edwin passed over the sheet, ashamed of his scrawl, for she would be used to looking at writing which was much more carefully done, in a psalter or a decorated book of poetry. She made no comment, however, other than being able to add one or two names which they’d missed.

  So, what do we do now?’ she asked, as she looked around at Martin and Simon. They both looked at Edwin, waiting for him to speak; she blinked and, after the barest pause, turned to face him.

  Edwin wanted to work through the problem in a logical manner. ‘Well, now we know who was here, we will need to work out who had the chance to get to the top of the keep. Do you know of anyone who might have been moving around the castle after nightfall?’ Martin and Simon shook their heads. Edwin looked directly at Joanna for the first time. ‘Mistress Joanna?’

  She paused for a moment before answering. ‘No. No, I don’t know of anyone who may have been abroad last night.’

  The destrier was a magnificent beast, thought Robert, as he cantered across the countryside behind the earl. It felt very decadent to be out here riding, what with everything else going on, but the earl couldn’t possibly go on campaign and risk riding into battle on a horse which he wasn’t familiar with, so time had to be found.

  Once they reached open land he stopped to watch as the earl put the horse through its paces, starting and stopping, wheeling and turning, trotting and cantering, trying out different manoeuvres which might be needed on a battlefield. It had, of course, already been t
rained by the dealer who’d bred it, but when a man would be entrusting his life to an animal in battle, he needed to be at one with it, to feel its every movement beneath him. The earl was a superb horseman, having been placed in his first saddle before he could even walk and spent much of his life there ever since. But even he would need some time to become more familiar with such a highly-strung animal as a new destrier, and as Robert watched, he could see the movements of man and horse becoming finer and smoother as each got used to the other. After an hour he was mesmerised by the movement, could have sworn that the earl and his warhorse were one as they weaved and swept in front of him.

  Eventually the earl brought the stallion to a snorting halt in front of his squire. ‘A fine animal, eh?’

  ‘Very fine, my lord. Although he has a slight tendency to lower his head as you wheel to the left, which may be dangerous in the field.’

  The earl nodded. ‘Well done. I’d noticed the same thing myself.’ He smiled proudly. ‘Well, shall we see what he does when we give him his head?’ He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, but Robert could sense a certain amount of boyish enthusiasm, and his own spirits lifted. The fresh air, the space, the superb animal, the presence of the man who had been like a father to him for nigh on fifteen years. Robert looked back at him eagerly, scanning the countryside around for some landmark. ‘Shall we say the tree on that ridge, my lord?’ He pointed.

  The earl nodded his agreement, and instantly the two of them were off, spurring their mounts into an exhilarating gallop. Robert whooped as he felt the wind in his hair and the movement of the horse under him, the elation of travelling at such a speed. He was the fastest thing in the world, flying, soaring above the ground as his horse’s hooves pounded into the earth. This was true freedom. He held a lead over the earl to start with, a lighter man on a lighter horse, but slowly his master caught him and then edged past, bending low over the destrier’s neck. His own horse was a courser, a fine enough animal in its way, but no match for the prize warhorse, and the earl started to draw away. The courser did, however, have the advantage of freshness, so Robert was no more than a length behind the earl as they thundered past the finishing mark and drew up, laughing, to catch their breath, each praising his own animal for the effort it had expended.