A Pale Horse

Chapter One

Conisbrough Castle, South Yorkshire

June 1221

'Requiescat in pace.'

Edwin uttered the time-honoured words along with everyone else in the castle chapel, his head bowed and his eyes closed as he asked God's mercy for the dead man.

It was strange to be attending a funeral where there was no body to bury. But then it wasn't really a funeral, was it? More of a memorial service, because although they'd only heard the news yesterday, Sir Roger had been dead for many months. He'd perished in a place unimaginably far away and exotic, a city called Damietta, in Egypt, a land Edwin had only ever heard of in Bible stories and couldn't even begin to visualise. And there, under the scorching sun of Outremer, he would lie at rest until Judgement Day.

Edwin called Sir Roger's face to mind as he prayed. The knight had been a good friend and a fine and honourable man and, having met his death while on crusade, he was sure of the mercy they were all praying for. Edwin was confident that Sir Roger would soon be in heaven where he belonged, if he wasn't there already, meeting up with the old friends and comrades who had reached it before him.

Edwin concluded his prayers and opened his eyes to find that he was the last to do so, the others already crossing themselves and getting to their feet. He was at the back, nearest the door, so he jumped up and made way for everyone else to leave: the lord earl, followed by his clerk Brother William and Conisbrough's castellan Sir Geoffrey, then Sir Martin, having to duck under the lintel, and finally the squires Adam and Hugh and the little page, Wil.

That just left Father Ignatius, and Edwin moved to assist the priest in putting away the vessels and folding up the altar cloth. As he did so, he noticed the strain on the other's face. 'Courage, Father. I know we're all sorry that Sir Roger's gone - and I'll certainly miss him - but he died doing what he wanted, and the Lord's work too, on crusade, so we should be glad for him and his soul.'

'Oh, I am,' replied the priest, in a tone that sounded anything but, while he looked around to check that everything was safely stowed. 'And although he was only a young man, he'd already achieved a great deal and he was much loved. How many others can say the same, when their time comes?' He sighed. 'No, I'm afraid the weight on my shoulders is that I'm going straight to another funeral, down in the church.'

Edwin recollected. 'Oh yes, of course.'

'Burying children is part of my lot as a parish priest, but it never gets any easier, no matter how many times you do it.' Father Ignatius gestured for Edwin to leave the chapel first, and then genuflected before turning to follow him through the empty council chamber and into the cool stone stairwell.

'A drowning, I heard.' The words echoed.

'Yes. Fire and water, Edwin, that's how the Lord chooses to bring children home to Him when they aren't suffering from any illness. They drown, or they stray too near the hearth. It's His will, of course, but I confess I don't always understand it.'

Edwin remembered what he'd already seen of the parents' grief, although his mind shied away from the question of how he would ever survive if anything happened to one of his own beautiful children. The pain. it was just unimaginable. A village boy of seven or eight years old, full of life and splashing in the river with his friends, was within an hour pale, lifeless and gone forever. Edwin shivered.

'At least with water,' continued Father Ignatius, puffing a little, 'you can sometimes bring them back. If they haven't been under too long, the Lord shows His mercy and you can pump it out of them so they can breathe once more.' They reached the keep's outer door. 'But with fire, all you can do is pray for a swift death so as not to prolong the agony.'

Both of them had to close their eyes for a moment as they stepped out from the dark stairwell into the full glare of the late-morning midsummer sun. Then, shading his face, Father Ignatius moved off towards the gate, while Edwin drifted in the direction of where the earl and most of his attendants were standing.

'. and so, it would hardly be worth him having, wouldn't support him properly even if there wasn't this cousin with a claim,' the earl was saying to Sir Geoffrey. 'But we'll find him something else, never fear. One or two other estates will no doubt be falling vacant before too long, and back into my hands to bestow as I see fit, which will give him something at least until he gets his own inheritance. His father remains in robust health, I gather?'

'Yes, my lord, or he was the last time I heard.'

'Good, good. Haven't seen him for years, but he's a fine man, always has been.' The earl nodded and clapped. 'Now, as to - ah, there you are.' He'd spotted Edwin.

'Sorry, my lord, I was just helping Father Ignatius.'

'Never mind that.' The earl waved his hand, seemingly in a good mood despite the mournful event they'd just marked in the chapel. 'I won't need you for the next few hours. We're going to ride out, and Brother William says no new correspondence has arrived today as yet. So, go about whatever other business you have, and report back here a couple of hours before sunset.'

'Yes, my lord.' It was the feast of St John the Baptist, the first day of the season for hunting hart, the great stags of the red deer, and the talk in the earl's senior household had been of little else for days.

Edwin made his way through the outer ward, spotting Sir Martin outside the stable, giving brusque orders while men rushed to obey, and then he strolled down the hill towards the village. He'd just reached it when he was overtaken by the mounted party, swelled by the presence of a dozen garrison members and huntsmen accompanying the earl and his attendants.

Sir Martin nodded to Edwin as they passed, standing out from the others not only by his stature but also by the startling white colour of his magnificent new horse, Blanchart. Sir Martin always called it 'grey', for some reason, but it was definitely white, and Edwin had joked that he might as well put a target on himself if he ever had to ride into battle.

'Wouldn't need one,' had been the knight's terse reply, and he was right. He'd always been unusually tall, but now, at twenty-one, he'd grown into his full strength as well, and a punishing daily training regime with armour and weapons had given him the muscles and solidity to match. Mounted on the gigantic horse, the only one in the castle stable that would carry him, he could hardly be missed even if it wasn't for the colour.

But ownership of such a beast made Sir Martin a little happier, and the Lord knew he had some need to be after all he'd endured in the last few years. When he was with his beloved steed, or with Edwin and his family, he could unwind and become more like the real Martin, but with most others he was short-tempered. Edwin noted now that the garrison men in the party were keeping their own mounts well away from him. Occasionally, Sir Martin really needed to work out his frustrations, and although Edwin couldn't exactly approve of his method of doing so, he did at least understand it: young men living in the area who were violent bullies or who were credibly accused of assaulting girls often returned from the woods covered in blood and bruises at times when Sir Martin was known to have been out riding. At least it saved his sparring partners in the garrison from further injury.

The group rode through the village and out the other side, eventually becoming no more than a cloud of dust, and Edwin turned towards the church. He took off his hat as he entered, and bowed his head at the piteous sound of a mother's anguish.

After the sad service was over, he was sorely in need of the comfort he'd find at home, so he made his way there, attempting to fix a more cheerful expression on his face as he went.

It was busy at the cottage, as it always was. Several of the girls who worked for Alys were outside, taking advantage of the sunshine as they spun the wool she needed for her weaving, their hands busy as they chattered and as the clouds of fleece were expertly turned into thread. Edwin greeted them but had no need to ask where Alys was, as he could already hear the steady beat and thump of the loom.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of his home, his smile was genuine. How blessed he was in his family: there was his loving and beautiful wife, frowning in concentration at the intricate pattern she was halfway through; next to her was the cradle containing their healthy eight-week-old son; and over in the far corner were the two giggling little girls. Edwin was glad to note, remembering Father Ignatius's words, that they were well away from the hearth. Even in this warm weather a fire needed to be kept burning all day so that the grain in the pottage had ample time to simmer and soften before it went into those little mouths.

It was Edith and Matilda who spotted him first, and they toddled over to clutch at his legs and beg to be picked up. As they were not much past two years old, he could still sweep them both up at the same time,...