B0078XH7HQ EBOK Page 2

  Edwin didn’t take much persuading. He’d been helping William Steward with his accounts all the morning, which was not actually his task, but his assistance had saved his uncle several days of puzzling labour. Edwin could never understand how it was that other people couldn’t see the neat columns of numbers in their heads, or how they had trouble adding up bushels, or ells, or shillings and pence, but it seemed that they did, so he was happy to help out with something which was no effort to him. But the tiny office which led off the service area behind the great hall was cramped and airless, and he was glad of the opportunity to stretch his legs. He tossed the oatcake he was holding – now somewhat the worse for wear – to Robert and fished another out of the front of his tunic for himself as they entered the gatehouse and climbed the stone steps which led up to the walk around the top of the inner ward’s encircling walls. A man-at-arms who was about to come down stood aside and waited while they ascended; Edwin nodded his thanks as they passed, for it was Berold, a local man he’d known since childhood.

  It was windy up there, as it usually was, but the air was fresh and free from the normal smells of tightly-packed humanity. Edwin took a deep breath and tried to unwind the knots in his head. They strolled around towards the north side of the castle and then stopped, surveying the bustling ward beneath. The work of rebuilding the castle in stone was continuing: the keep and curtain wall were complete, but most of the buildings inside the inner ward, nestling against the walls, were still wooden. The earl had ordered them replaced, and masons hurried to and fro going about their tasks. Their work was a mystery to Edwin, but each seemed to know his part, and the structures came together like magic under their hands. For many of them it was a lifetime’s work; some of them had learnt their trade there from their fathers, who had built the keep itself a generation ago. They were starting with the kitchen, which Edwin supposed was sensible, as that was the part of the castle most susceptible to fire. Then their work would move on to the adjacent great hall, and Edwin thought to himself that it would indeed be a grand place to eat when it was finished. It was no more than the earl merited, though: William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, was one of the richest and most powerful men in the kingdom, and it was right and fitting that he should have imposing surroundings in which to entertain and impress his guests. Edwin had never met the earl face-to-face, of course, but he’d sometimes seen him at fairly close quarters during the course of his work, and he counted himself fortunate to live under the rule of such a great man. It was the best that someone like him could hope for.

  Robert finished his cake and fastidiously picked a few crumbs off the front of his tunic as they continued walking. There was a moment of companionable silence before Edwin asked a question about one of the two things which had been preying on his mind these last days.

  ‘So the earl will join the war against the French invaders?’

  Robert sighed. ‘Yes, it looks that way.’ He fiddled with the thong around his neck which held something he kept under his shirt – Edwin suspected it was a lock of hair or some other keepsake from Mistress Joanna, as he had observed that she had a similar cord around her own neck – and went on. ‘Prince Louis holds large parts of the country, so the regent needs to stop him before he gets too powerful. He’ll be forced to do something soon, so we’ll have to be prepared to march anywhere at his command.’

  Edwin was about to press him for more details, but he stopped.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over there.’ Edwin pointed out along the road that led south from the village, where he could just make out what looked like a moving patch of dust.

  Robert screwed his eyes up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think it’s a man on horseback, and it looks like he’s in a hurry.’

  Robert sounded impressed. ‘Your eyes are better than my falcon’s. Come on, we’d better go down to meet him – perhaps he’s got a message for my lord.’

  Edwin could see the man clearly now – as could one of the guards, belatedly calling out – and surely nobody would labour a precious horse that way unless he had a duty of some urgency. They hurried back along the parapet, down the stairs, out of the gatehouse and through the outer ward, just as a man on an exhausted, lathered horse dismounted by the outer gate and demanded that he be taken to see the earl immediately. Robert stepped forward briskly, all business, any signs of relaxation gone. ‘I’m Robert Fitzhugh, the earl’s squire. I’ll take you to him.’ As he led the man up the hill, he looked over his shoulder at Edwin and threw him a parting remark. ‘I’ll try and find you later, to tell you about it.’ Edwin nodded, but he doubted that his friend would have much leisure time for the rest of the day, for he had seen the badge that the messenger wore on his tunic: the emblem of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil, and regent of all England.

  Earl William de Warenne was a man with a temper. He rarely lost it, but when he did, men trembled at his wrath. His squires, therefore, tried to avoid doing anything which would prompt an outburst, but as Martin stood in the shadows at the edge of the council chamber, he could see that the Lady Isabelle was treading on very dangerous ground.

  The earl had been pleased when he’d entered to give the good news about the destrier’s condition, but his easy gait and ready smile had turned to tight, controlled movements and short, barked sentences as soon as his sister came in. If Martin had been able to give her any advice, it would have been to avoid the topic upon which he knew she was about to embark, but of course he was in no position to speak to her without being asked, so he kept his mouth shut and watched as she made her situation much, much worse. It wasn’t just the subject, which even Martin had heard many times; it was that particularly whining tone of voice which just bored into his head.

  The earl’s speech became even more brusque and one fist started to clench. Martin cast a glance down at young Simon, to check he wasn’t about to do anything which would make him a potential target of the outburst which was now inevitable: he hadn’t quite mastered the art of standing perfectly still until summoned, and was therefore apt to bring himself to the attention of his betters at inconvenient times. But he wasn’t fidgeting, he was concentrating avidly on the exchange in front of him; of course, the Lady Isabelle had slapped his face only that morning, and in front of a group of smirking guards as well, so he would probably enjoy seeing her brother put her in her place.

  The earl was doing remarkably well at keeping his voice level, despite the whining and wailing, but both fists were now balled. Martin set himself to staring straight ahead to avoid looking either of them in the eye, and tried to sink into his own thoughts. His feet hurt: the boots which he’d only been wearing since Christmas were becoming too small, but as they were still in good condition he dared not ask for any more. He would have to make them last, but maybe he could do something with them to make them stretch a bit further? He would have a try later on whenever he got the chance to sit down.

  The earl had just taken in a deep breath when there was a sudden knock at the door, and the bellow which had been meant for his sister ended up being directed at whoever was outside. Martin winced when he saw Robert step over the threshold, aware of his spectacularly bad timing, but all was saved by the entrance of a tired-looking, mud-splattered man. He had his back to Martin, but the earl took one look at the badge on the front of the man’s tunic and stopped mid-word. He ushered his sister out of the room, virtually shoving her out into the passageway, and slammed the door behind her. The man turned, and Martin could see the emblem of the regent on his chest.

  The earl said nothing as he let the envoy speak his message; then, expressionless, he sent Robert off with the man to the kitchen for some refreshment, and Simon to find Sir Geoffrey. As he waited for the arrival of the old castellan he paced up and down the council chamber in silence.

  After a few moments a knock sounded at the door, and on the earl’s signal Martin opened it to admit Sir Geoffrey, the commander of the
Conisbrough garrison, with Simon trailing behind him. Martin might have known that the earl would ask for the knight’s advice before coming to a final decision: Sir Geoffrey had been in the service of the Warennes for the whole of his life, as had his father before him, and was the veteran of many a campaign. He nodded wordlessly at the earl and waited for him to speak.

  ‘The regent has decided to act.’

  ‘Lincoln?’ Sir Geoffrey didn’t believe in wasting words, but despite having listened to the envoy, Martin was still a little hazy on the details. Simon looked at him enquiringly, but he shrugged, hoping that Robert might be able to fill them in later on. He always understood these things better.

  The earl continued. ‘Yes. He calls “all loyal men” to muster at Newark in four days’ time in order to march on Lincoln and relieve the castle. The question is, shall I obey?’ Sir Geoffrey said nothing, watching his lord intently. Martin’s eyes, too, followed the earl up and down the room as he paced, wrestling with himself. Martin might not have understood all of the message, but what was clear was that the earl’s decision might eventually mean life or death for him and many others.

  After what seemed like an age, the earl stopped. He turned to Sir Geoffrey. ‘Making a truce with him is a far cry from risking the lives of my men fighting for his cause.’ He paused, then continued, his voice for a moment sounding a little less sure. ‘And yet … the king isn’t responsible for the sins of his father, and an English boy king is to be preferred to a French prince.’ He folded his arms and spoke with more force. ‘We will fight.’

  As Edwin walked through the ward a little later, people were running in all directions in a great hurry and there was a buzz of activity and excitement about the place. The news that the earl would shortly be marching off to war had spread around the castle like a moorland fire. He moved quickly aside as a mounted man sped out of the gate, and hailed Martin as the tall squire hurried out of the stables. Martin waved an arm but didn’t stop. ‘Busy, important news … Robert says … in the hall after the evening meal.’ Edwin nodded and Martin loped off.

  When Edwin reached the great hall and the service room behind it he found all in an uproar. William Steward was standing amid a throng of serving-men barking orders. He saw Edwin approaching. ‘Where have you been? The earl and his men need to leave in three days, and they’ll need campaign supplies with them. There’s a lot to do and I could use your skill with numbers. Have you time?’ Edwin opened his mouth to speak. ‘Good, come with me.’ Edwin shut his mouth again and followed his uncle.

  William led the way into the relative calm of his office and gestured for Edwin to sit. ‘I have a list of the supplies which the host will need,’ he waved a piece of parchment, ‘but I haven’t yet worked out the quantities. I want you to find out exactly how many men and horses will be going – I’ve sent a boy for the muster rolls – work out what each needs per day, and then calculate how much will be needed for forty days. When you’ve done that for each type of supply, send the boy to me with the details, so I can arrange for the stores to be fetched and packed. Pens and ink are there.’ He gestured to the end of the table. ‘All right?’ Edwin nodded, and William gave him a brief but hearty thump on the shoulder by way of thanks then left, shouting for his wife as he went.

  Grimacing and rubbing his shoulder, Edwin pulled the quills towards him and took out his knife to sharpen them. If ever a man had been born to be a steward, William was not he, and as he always did, Edwin wondered how in the Lord’s name he had come to be given the exalted position. William had once been a soldier, but had been wounded in the service of the old earl and couldn’t continue. He never spoke of the circumstances, but Edwin’s guess was that he’d rendered some service to the earl as, instead of being pensioned off or left to find his own way in the world, he’d been made steward, in charge of all the stores and supplies at the Conisbrough estate. He was – in Edwin’s opinion anyway – unsuited to the job, having a blunt soldier’s outlook on life and no head for figures whatsoever. However, over the years he’d learned his new trade fairly well and was now competent, except when it came to making large calculations. But he deserved a new chance at life: whatever his service to the earl had been, he’d paid a high price for it. He walked with a permanent limp as one leg was twisted; a horrific scar disfigured the entire left side of his face, and part of his left ear was missing. The one advantage of this, if any aspect of such a grave injury could be called an advantage, was that the scar gave his face a terrible, almost demonic look, and all his underlings and the traders who dealt with him were so intimidated that nobody ever tried to cheat him. This belied the fact that he was even-tempered and pleasant, but it was useful nonetheless. He was also married to Edwin’s mother’s sister, and so deserved not only respect but affection as well, which was why Edwin seemed to spend so much of his time helping him, he supposed. The quills sharpened, Edwin took a deep breath, dipped one in the ink, and started to write. The figures arranged themselves neatly in his head as he became engrossed.

  By the time he looked up from his labours the room was almost dark. He smelt the evening meal being prepared and realised he was hungry. Giving the last parchment to a very tired-looking serving-boy, he put the pen down and stretched his arms. He was exhausted, but that was good. Maybe he would be able to sleep tonight. He drifted in something of a daze into the hall, wandered down to one of the lower tables which ran lengthways down the room, and found himself a seat next to Berold. When all were assembled the earl entered, followed by his sister and his squires and page. Everyone stood while Father Ignatius said grace, and then the earl sat, with Lady Isabelle on his right and Sir Geoffrey on his left, which was the signal for all to take their places and begin eating. Edwin nodded his thanks to the serving-man who placed a trencher in front of him, and then began to eat with gusto when it was loaded with a thick pottage and a piece of good maslin bread to dip into it. As it was Monday, meat was permitted, which gave the pottage a hearty flavour, and Edwin applied himself to working his way through it all as quickly as possible. He was so hungry that he ate the trencher as well, feeling a moment’s guilt that the soaked bread wouldn’t go to the poor, but knowing that there would be plenty of others. As he ate he tried to catch Robert’s eye, but his friend was too far away, and was, in any case, busy serving the earl with the different dishes at the high table, pouring his wine, and keeping an eye on Simon to see that he was performing the same services for Lady Isabelle. Martin, who was attending to Sir Geoffrey, was doing so in an exemplary fashion and from what Edwin could see rarely needed a word from his senior.

  At the end of the meal the earl rose and retired from the room, indicating to his squires and page that they could now help themselves. He left with Sir Geoffrey; the rest of the people in the hall started to disperse, and Robert, Martin and Simon all took trenchers and piled them high with food before making their way down the hall to where Edwin was. He looked enviously at their meals: it was no feast day, but the food from the high table was still something to be marvelled at. The pottage served to the main hall had been perfectly adequate, but here were some real delicacies such as venison haunch, quails and a tart made with thick, creamy rewain cheese, as well as real white paindemain bread. Edwin felt hungry all over again. Martin and Simon – whose platter was heaped so high he could barely see over it – thumped down on to the bench opposite Edwin, while Robert seated himself next to his friend and indicated that he should help himself to some of the food on the trencher. Edwin dipped a chunk of the light bread into the rich sauce which covered the quails, and savoured it while he waited eagerly to hear all the news.

  Robert ate a large mouthful before starting. ‘You already know that we’re going to join the war?’ Edwin nodded. Not only did he know that, but he also knew exactly how many men the earl would be taking, and what supplies would be provided for each of them, but he didn’t interrupt. Simon tried to ask a question but choked on the enormous piece of venison which he was busy stuffing into
his mouth. Martin thumped him hard on the back and he gave a large swallow before continuing in his piping voice. ‘But I don’t understand. Why have we changed sides?’ Edwin nodded, as he also had to admit to confusion about some of the details. He was glad that Simon had asked, to save him the embarrassment of sounding foolish.

  Robert sighed. ‘I’d better start from the beginning.’ He ate another large spoonful of the cheese tart as he considered his next words. ‘All right then. Now, as you know, the old king —,’ Simon spluttered again and sprayed breadcrumbs on the table, but Robert seemed to understand, ‘Yes, Simon, that’s right – he was a bad king.’

  Edwin concentrated hard on Robert’s words and tried to make sense of it all. King John hadn’t respected the rights of his nobles and knights, so they’d rebelled against him. That made sense. The king had had to sign the Great Charter and agree to uphold the nobles’ rights, but even then he didn’t respect them, so the nobles eventually tired of his empty promises and offered the crown to someone else. Presumptuous, yes, but still making sense. They’d offered it to Prince Louis, the son of the French king. That was a bit of a logical leap – why the French prince and not someone else? He’d have to check up later, but he wasn’t going to make himself look stupid by interrupting now. Anyway, Robert was continuing. The earl hadn’t been one of these disaffected nobles to start with, but he came round to their way of thinking and joined them later. But then, last autumn, the king died, and he was succeeded by his son, who was only nine years old.