B0078XH7HQ EBOK (22 page)

Watching as the cart moved slowly past, he was struck by an idea. If I were a hungry boy, he thought to himself, where would I be? Annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it earlier, he walked in through the gate and around to the open space where other carts were being loaded with food. The earl’s marshal, the man in charge of the household’s travel arrangements, was fussing and flustered as he consulted lists and pointed the carriers in the right direction, and there seemed to be much confusion. Edwin looked around carefully: sure enough, a small figure lurked in the narrow space between two of the buildings set against the outer wall, watching avidly. No doubt he was hoping that something would fall, which might mean it would be discarded or overlooked. Aware of the boy’s speed despite his frail-looking frame, Edwin moved surreptitiously along the side of the building. He had no desire to lose his quarry again.

‘Got you!’ He jumped in front of the narrow opening, spreading his arms wide to prevent any escape. Peter tried his best, but there was no way out behind him; he lunged forward, but Edwin caught him and lifted him bodily off the floor. He weighed virtually nothing, but struggled as best he could, and shouted.

Edwin looked around him, embarrassed at the noise. However, after a quick glance the men who were working turned away. Nobody had any interest in a ragged boy who had been apprehended by a respectable-looking man. Clearly he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t and was about to get his punishment; he was poor, unimportant, and invisible.

Edwin held Peter until his struggles subsided, trying to make plain that he only wanted to talk and didn’t intend any violence. He started to carry his prize back down the alleyway, but the confined space held the Lord knew what, and it stank. Instead, he stepped out into the twilight and wondered where would be a good place to go. He headed for the stables.

He was just inside the door when he remembered why he’d been in the stables earlier, and he nearly turned and left again. But there was nowhere else where he could have a quiet word with the boy, so he made his way in. He realised with some irony that similar thoughts might have been going through the head of the murderer earlier, and decided to store up that theory for later. In the meantime he needed some more information.

Inside it was relatively peaceful: sounds came from one or two of the stalls, indicating that a couple of grooms were checking hooves and currying steeds, but otherwise it was quiet. Edwin considered the hayloft above, realised that he was unlikely to make it up the ladder without either letting Peter go or causing both of them some injury, and instead moved into an empty stall and thankfully sat down on a pile of straw. He loosened his grip on his captive slightly, keeping hold of a fistful of the ragged tunic, and inspected the boy before him.

Lord, but he was dirty. Edwin was not fastidious himself, but never in all his life had he been as filthy as that. The boy stank to high heaven and Edwin’s hand felt soiled and greasy just from the contact with his clothing. Underneath the matted hair and the layers of dirt a small face peered out, thin and sharp. The cheeks were pinched and the eyes hollow and streaming with tears. The boy wiped his sleeve across his face – it was difficult to see what might be served by the gesture, for each was as grimy as the other – and sniffed. The tears continued and his small shoulders shook.

Edwin was at a loss as to how to begin. He looked at the abject creature in front of him and felt nothing but pity, but he had his duty.

‘Peter.’

No effect. He tried again.

‘Peter, I need to talk to you about the knife you had yesterday. Where did you get it from?’

Silence.

‘Did you steal it from the kitchen?’

The sobs continued unabated. Edwin didn’t know what to do, but the pressure of his situation was starting to tell on him. He must get some sort of information here. Hating himself, he took the boy by both shoulders and shook him hard.

‘Listen to me! You must talk to me or you will be in more trouble. Did you steal the knife from the kitchen?’

If anything, the sobs only increased, and Peter sank further into his misery. Edwin raised his hand to strike the child, but then thought about what he was doing, and loathed himself. Here was the lowest of the low, the most unfortunate creature he’d ever come across; orphaned, friendless, starving, petrified. And he had been about to hit him in order to make him speak. Was this how his life as bailiff was going to be? Bullying the weak? He relented and lowered his hand. But he still needed some answers. He had one more idea.

‘Peter, listen to me – if you speak to me and tell me what I want to know, I’ll see that you get something to eat.’ A pause in the shivering and crying. ‘And maybe even a new tunic, something warm to wear.’

How in the Lord’s name was he going to do that? The food, maybe, for he could rely upon his mother if needs be. But the clothing? He himself had only one spare tunic, and it would swamp the boy for certain. But maybe he could use some of the money he’d saved to buy something off one of the women in the village, one whose son had outgrown something. Maybe somebody would be glad of a coin in place of an old tunic which was too small.

His new approach was working. The sobs stopped and an incredulous face looked at him through the tears. ‘Really?’

Edwin had always been told that he had a soft heart, but looking at the hope on the face in front of him, he knew he would do whatever it took. ‘Yes, really. But first, speak. Did you steal the knife?’

‘Nobody was using it.’

That was a start. ‘So you did have it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get it from the kitchen?’

A nod.

‘What did you do with it?’

‘I wanted to sell it. But nobody would buy it. Then I wanted to use it to kill something to eat, but I couldn’t catch nothing. Then the squire and the knight saw me with it, and I ran. I dropped it, and now it’s gone.’

Such a long speech, but still no joy for Edwin. If this knife was the murder weapon, then Peter certainly wasn’t the murderer, nor would he be able to shed any light on who was. A thought struck him.

‘Which squire? Which knight?’

Peter didn’t know their names, the great ones who moved at the edge of his world, far above him. But for the promise of food and clothes, he would try. ‘The earl’s squire. Not the tall one, the other one. And the knight with the shining face.’

Well, the squire had to be Robert, surely, which fitted with his message, but the knight … ‘What do you mean, shining face?’

Peter didn’t have the words to express the picture in his mind. ‘Just … shining. Like a light.’ Edwin still looked bemused, and Peter could see his meal slipping away. He tried again, and was rewarded with a flash of inspiration. ‘He used to be here. Another squire.’

There could only be one knight who fitted that description, but how might he be involved with this? Edwin recalled that he had seen Sir Roger praying over the body. But what possible connection could he have to all this? He could never have set eyes on the dead earl before this week, so what cause would he have to kill him? Still, this was new information. Edwin ordered his thoughts. He must first find Robert, to see what he might have discovered since this morning, and then he would have to talk with Sir Roger again.

Peter was staring at him in hope. No, before all the other tasks, he must keep his promise here. First, the food. He rose, with the boy looking at him expectantly. ‘Stay here, Peter, and I’ll bring you some food.’ Peter’s face fell – clearly he had no expectation that anything would be forthcoming. As Edwin started to move away, the boy desperately tried one last gamble, perhaps thinking that more information might mean more chance of food. He clutched at Edwin’s sleeve, his small hand gripping tightly.

‘I saw them.’

Edwin stopped. ‘Saw who?’

‘By the keep. In the night. When the man was killed.’

Edwin sat down again, thumping to the floor, unable to believe his luck. He looked closely at the boy. ‘Are you lying to me? I can assure you, if you are, you will get nothing.’

Peter was eager now, sensing that he had power. He shook his head. ‘Not lying.’

‘All right then, answer my questions. What were you doing in the inner ward, up by the keep?’

The boy looked uncomfortable. ‘Looking for somewhere to sleep. There aren’t many places here, because people see me and tell me to go away. So I went to see if there was a place up there. There was a little hole in the wall. I climbed in.’

‘Did the guards not see you?’

‘No. I hid. I saw one soldier but he didn’t see me.’

‘Do you know which soldier? His name?’

A shake of the head. But surely it had been Berold?

‘Where were you hiding?’

‘Under the steps to the keep. Out of the wind.’

Edwin grew more excited. If this was true, Peter could have seen who went into the keep. But wait, what had he said? Not ‘he’, but ‘them’.

‘How many people did you see? I mean, after everyone had gone to bed.’

Peter looked thoughtful for a moment and then, with concentration, he held up four fingers.

‘Four? You saw four people going into the keep?’

Peter nodded.

‘Were they all together? Who were they?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Not together. None of them. They went in, but they didn’t all come out. All except the dead man.’

Edwin was having some difficulty with the way in which Peter was expressing himself. Why could he not articulate clearly? With sudden insight, he realised that it was probably because nobody ever spoke to him, or at least didn’t speak to him properly, so he never had cause to practise his speech. His heart went out again to the waif, and he kept his patience as he tried to question him again.

‘So, four people went in,’ he held up four fingers, and then folded one back down, ‘and three came out?’

Peter nodded. ‘They came out … not together. Apart, but not very far apart.’

Edwin grew more excited. ‘Who were they?’

The words were halting, but the meaning sent a shiver through him.

‘The other visitor – the little man – the earl’s sister, and the priest.’

Edwin sat back in shock. This wasn’t what he had been expecting. What on earth had the three of them been doing in the keep during the night? Had they gone together, or separately? He needed to find out more about Walter, and it was now more imperative than ever that he find Father Ignatius. He rose and turned to leave, but was stopped by the small grubby hand still holding his sleeve. He looked down into the hollow eyes. First things first.

‘Stay here and I’ll bring you some food.’

Disbelief. The hand gripped harder.

Edwin hastened to reassure the boy. ‘Honestly, Peter, I’m not fooling you. You stay here while I go to see the steward’s wife: she is my aunt and will give me something if I ask for it, but if she knows it’s for you then it might be more difficult. I’ll come back as soon as I can.’ He slipped out of the stall, back towards the stable door, passing the two stalls where men were working, still concentrating on their horses. He had much to think about – those who had entered the keep, for a start, to say nothing of the missing knife, which was assuming an ever greater importance in his mind. Nobody would use their own knife to kill a man if they could use somebody else’s, surely – but had someone taken it and crept into the keep under cover of darkness? Was it one of the people Peter had seen, or could it have been someone else? And what had Berold seen? He hardly noticed where his feet were taking him as he walked up towards the inner gatehouse.

Peter looked miserably after him. He was hungry, he was cold, and he was frightened. So much had happened since the death of his mother and father, and none of it had been pleasant. He remembered their faces only vaguely. They hadn’t been the most loving of parents – his father had been wont to beat him when the mood took him, and his mother was always so tired – but they had been his, the only family he had since his little brother and sister had gone to heaven a number of years before. Since the day when his parents were buried in the frosty, hard ground, his life had been one of cold and misery. He stole to eat, for what else could he do? But worse than the hunger was the absolute sense of being alone. He had no one to speak to, no one to share anything with, no one to comfort him in his pain. His sole dealings with people involved a rough and impersonal kindness at best, a gruff word and a few scraps, or a curse and a blow at worst. He had no friends; he was utterly alone in the world. The previous night he had crept up, alone, into the inner ward, squeezing in through a tiny hole in the wall, and had found a lonely corner in which to hide, dark and unwelcoming, but at least out of the cold wind which swept the night. There he’d curled up until the first pre-dawn sounds came from the kitchen, and he’d crept away again, unnoticed, to begin another solitary and hungry day.

The tears welled up again and he cried, huge harsh sobs which racked his whole body. He’d hoped that Edwin’s kind face had heralded some food at least, but it looked as though he would sleep hungry again. Thinking of sleep, he looked at his surroundings. Here in the stall it was warm and dry, with straw to cover him. He’d seen a horse being taken out for some exercise earlier, so it would probably come back at some point, but until then, nobody knew he was here. If he stayed very quiet, perhaps he could hide under the straw and remain unnoticed even when the horse came back, and then he could share its warmth throughout the night. He lay down and burrowed into the straw.