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‘You’re right. But by that token, we must also discount the Lady Isabelle. Why would she want to kill him? And how could she do it? He was a strong man, and she’s only a woman.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Edwin, ‘but if she believed herself wed to the earl’s brother, then maybe she thought she would be a step closer to being the countess if he were dead? For then she would be married to the heir. De Courteville had but one son, is that right? She wouldn’t be far away from her ambition with only a child in her path.’ My God, he thought, is this what I’ve come to? Suspecting the Lady Isabelle, the earl’s own sister, of murdering a guest under his roof? How can the world have turned upside down so quickly? How can we be talking about this?

Martin shook his head. ‘But in that case, surely it’s much more likely that Walter would have killed his brother? He would be the one with all the power, after all, if he were to inherit. And who knows – he might have held some secret grudge against his brother, for that often happens in families. I think we need to find out more about him.’

Edwin thought the same: surely Walter was the most obvious suspect? He could have killed his brother and then stabbed Berold after he’d found out that he had been observed. Edwin also admitted to a feeling that it would be nice if the culprit turned out to be a stranger, and not someone from the castle or village, someone he knew. It would be easier that way. He needed to – but no, it was getting very late to do anything else today.

‘Well, it will have to wait – we can hardly drag the man from his bed to question him.’ Lord, but he was tired. How long had he been awake? The morning seemed like a lifetime away. Had it only been yesterday that he had been living his normal life? To be concerned with local matters on one day, and to be overtaken by events of national importance on the next – it was scarcely credible. He was half-convinced that he would wake up and find that it had all been a dream, such was the air of unreality.

It had gone very quiet over in the corner where Simon was sitting. Edwin turned to look at him, half expecting him to be asleep, but he was sitting upright on a stool, staring into the distance with a thoughtful expression.

‘Simon?’

He’d broken the spell. The boy turned round to look at him, weariness showing in his eyes. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘What you were saying earlier about the time when the earl must have been murdered.’ He didn’t elaborate, making Edwin irritable.

‘Well, what about it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Edwin sighed in exasperation, but Simon continued. ‘There’s something – but it can’t be.’ He looked around at both of the others. ‘No, it can’t be. Just forget about it.’ He sighed, suddenly looking even younger. ‘I’m tired.’

Martin walked over to him and hauled him up off the stool. ‘Go to bed then. Our lord will need you tomorrow, and you’ll be no use if you’re so tired that you can’t stand up. Go on, off with you. Don’t wake the earl on your way into the bedchamber.’ He shoved Simon gently towards the door, and the boy staggered out into the dark room beyond.

Martin came back into the room to face Edwin, who spoke.

‘You should go as well.’

‘But we have much to discuss yet. We need to work out what we’re going to do tomorrow. We’ve only got one day left – we shouldn’t waste the night in sleep.’

But Edwin was shaking his head. ‘No. You’ll have a busy day tomorrow too, and you’ll need your wits about you. Go now, and leave me to think.’ He was too tired to notice that he’d become more used to issuing orders to members of the nobility.

‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll stay here. It’s too late to go back down to the village. There are others asleep in the hall here – perhaps I’ll join them.’

Martin hesitated. Edwin could see that he was exhausted. ‘Well, if you think it best …’

‘Yes, I do. Go.’

Edwin watched the tall figure leave the room, stooping as he walked under the lintel of the door. Wearily, he forced himself to stand. He followed out through the service room and into the hall, where shrouded figures lay in various attitudes on the floor. He groped around until he found a spare blanket, but then took it back into the office. He wouldn’t be able to think out in the hall. He moved a stool back against the wall, and sat back on it, wrapping the blanket around him. He schooled himself into calmness, staring in front of him and inhaling the scent of spices. He needed to order his thoughts and here, in the peace of the room, would be the best place.

He realised that he hadn’t thought about his father for several hours, the first time this had happened in weeks. Was he coming to terms with the impending loss, or was it merely that he had so much else on his mind that the demons had been pushed back out of his thoughts? He certainly had much else to occupy his mind. He tried to say a prayer for Berold, but couldn’t think straight for long enough to offer it properly to the Lord. The death provoked stronger feelings in him than the other, partly as Berold seemed more of an innocent, but also because nobody else seemed much bothered by it, intent as they were on the death of a man of higher rank. Was Berold not equal before the Lord to any man? He didn’t really know whether that was the case, but it was certain that here on earth he counted for much less than the dead nobleman. Hadn’t Sir Geoffrey himself said that the soldier’s death shouldn’t distract him from his main task? Well, he would avenge Berold, would give him some peace in his grave by finding out who had killed him. He would spend the night deep in thought until the pieces of the puzzle became clearer.

He blew out the tallow candle and settled back.

Outside in the courtyard, Martin stumbled for a moment on an uneven stone, and stopped to regain his balance, waiting until his eyes had become accustomed to the blackness. In truth, it wasn’t full dark, for the moon hadn’t yet waned, but it was still darker than the office with its flickering candle. He moved slowly through the yard, thinking how eerie the castle was during the night. Only a day before, a man had made almost this same journey, and had met his death. Martin shivered and looked warily at the shadows around him, becoming afraid. He tried to pull himself together. He was being foolish, thinking that anyone might harm him – after all, whoever killed the earl no doubt had a good reason to do so.

He thought of the visiting earl again. Surely there must have been many people with a reason to wish him ill. He was hardly the most pleasant of men. As Martin passed the kitchen, he recalled the events which had taken place there last night. He dreaded to think what might have happened to Joanna if he hadn’t been there. Joanna … for a moment he was lost in a pleasant reverie, but he was jolted back to awareness by a thought. He stopped still in the darkness of the yard, considering the import of it. Joanna had come to speak to them earlier, to discuss what had happened. He himself had welcomed her. But she was Lady Isabelle’s companion, in her presence day and night. Lady Isabelle had been abroad for much of the night before, walking between the guest quarters and the keep, and up to the chapel for her false wedding ceremony. And yet, when they’d asked Joanna, she had asserted that she knew of nobody who might have been awake and moving about the castle at the time.

Martin felt cold. Why had she said that?

Edwin awoke in a panic as someone started to strike him. He fell off his stool and shouted for the onslaught to stop, trying to avoid the blows. He risked looking up to see that his assailant was William Steward.

‘Lord, boy, what are you trying to do to me, sitting there in the dark against the wall? Don’t you know you should never take a soldier by surprise like that? A few years ago in a different place and I might have killed you.’ He grabbed a handful of Edwin’s tunic and hauled him off the floor.

Edwin apologised. He felt dizzy. He’d sat in the darkness for much of the night, thinking his way through things, but had eventually dozed off, still in his sitting position. Now he was so stiff he could hardly move, and his muscles ached.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘I was talking in here last night, and it was too late to go back home, so I thought I’d stay here and try to get some things straight in my mind.’

William grunted. ‘Aye, well, it’s a hard enough task you’ve been given.’ He found another stool and sat down. ‘What have you discovered so far?’

‘Not much.’ Edwin summarised what he knew. He was right, there was little enough of it, but explaining helped him to fit different pieces of information together.

William sat in silence while he listened, apart from expelling a long breath at the mention of the priest’s story. Once Edwin had finished, he spoke. ‘It seems as though you know more than you think.’

Edwin sighed. ‘Yes, but I still have no idea about the most important answer I need. Who killed the earl, and why?’

William clouted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You’ll find out. I don’t know either, but I can tell you one thing – he was a wicked man.’

Edwin was interested. ‘What do you know of him?’

William shrugged. ‘Nothing from my own experience. But while we were on campaign in Normandy all those years ago, I heard tales of evil deeds. Those taken prisoner by him or his men weren’t safe, even if they were knights. It was the custom, of course, for knights to be ransomed, even if common men like me were slaughtered because they weren’t worth anything. But de Courteville seemed to care nothing for the money. Oh, he got rich enough, but if there were any he’d taken against, any who might have slighted him, he would rather have his revenge than their gold.’

Edwin felt chilled. But here was the opportunity to ask William about that long-ago campaign, to try and glean some information while he could. He couldn’t help thinking that the key to this mystery might lie in the past rather than the present, so the more he knew about it, the better. He asked the question.

William expelled another long breath. ‘I swore once never to speak of that campaign, but if you think it’ll help you, I’ll try.’ He settled himself more comfortably on the stool.

‘War is an evil thing. You may have heard tales of chivalry and high deeds, but it’s not like that. Pray God that you never have to go near a field of battle. The commanders may have some kind of view of how things are going overall, but for the common soldier it’s all about what you can see in front of you. Who will come running at you, trying to kill or maim you? How will you defend yourself? What will you do if someone comes at you from the side or from behind while you’re already engaged with someone else? There’s nothing you can do except take each moment as it comes.’

His eyes took on a far-away look, as though he was seeing not the room around him, but shades from long ago. ‘The bloodlust in another man’s eyes, or the fear in them. The sound it makes when you run the steel of your weapon into his body, the noise of his screams, the struggle to wrench the bloodied thing out of him so you can use it on someone else. The feeling of your comrades around you, some standing shoulder to shoulder with you, others falling in agony. Their cries, and the knowledge that you can do nothing to help them, even if it’s someone you’ve known since childhood. And this goes on and on, hour after hour, until you’re so exhausted you can hardly stand, but you know that if you drop your guard for a moment, you’ll be one of the ones writhing on the floor, screaming for the mercy of a blade to put you out of your agony. Until finally it stops. Your enemies are fleeing – or you are – and there’s no one left to fight. You step over mutilated bodies, over severed limbs, over spilled guts, wading in the blood, looking for the faces of your friends, or at least those that still have faces that you can recognise. You finish off any enemies in cold blood, while trying to save those of your own who might have a chance of recovery. The birds start to circle and the flies hover, ready to feast on the dead, and you leave knowing that you’ll never get the smell of blood out of your nostrils, and that you’ll never wash it off your hands.’

He paused for a moment, looking blindly down at his hands. Edwin felt sick, but he was mesmerised: he’d never heard William talk like this before. But there was more to come.

‘Oh, but there’s worse than the battlefield. The true battlefield comes along but seldom. All the time in between you’re seeking to destroy your enemies’ lands and resources, either to gain supplies for yourself, or simply to ensure that he shall not have them. A
chevauchee
,’ – he struggled with the French term – ‘the nobles call it, a fine, grand word. But what it involves is seeking out villages, the places where people have made their homes and their livelihoods, just like here, and stealing everything and burning their homes to the ground. Do you have any idea what that’s like? The screaming, the flames, the women, the children … God forgive me. I’ve never killed a child, but I’ve seen it happen, and there is no sight more guaranteed to stay in a man’s mind until the hour of his death.’ He bowed his head and crossed himself.