by S. D. Sykes
Peter’s sympathy extended to another roll of his eyes. ‘You have no idea of the danger that you put yourself in, Oswald. Turning up in a village like this, carrying the body of a dead girl.’
‘I couldn’t just leave Agnes in the forest, could I?’
‘But you should have come to me first,’ he said. ‘I could have helped you, Oswald.’ When I didn’t answer, he grasped my arm, and pulled me forward. ‘Come on. Let’s get you out of here. Before you cause any more trouble.’
‘But I need to wait for the Hue and Cry to return,’ I replied. ‘I want to see if they found anything.’
‘Let the Constable deal with it,’ said Peter. ‘You’ve done enough today.’
‘But—’
‘We need to get back to the monastery,’ he snapped. ‘The Abbot wants to urgently speak to everybody.’
‘What about?’
Peter heaved a sigh. ‘There are worse troubles in the world than this, Oswald,’ he said darkly. ‘Believe me.’
* * *
Peter tipped my elbow and led me to the other side of the village green, where I was relieved to find that he’d arrived with a spare pony. After this, we rode for the monastery – not that my departure from Stonebrook passed completely without event. A number of villagers tried to speak to me as we trotted along the main street, only for Peter to loudly warn them all to go home and mind their own business.
As we rode past a grand, four-bay hall that dwarfed all the other homes in this street, Maud Woodstock came to her door to watch me leave. Our eyes met for a moment, before she nodded her head to mine and gave me another of those beautiful and reassuring smiles. I was about to return the gesture, when I saw that Peter was glaring at me, his face stern and disapproving.
‘Eyes ahead, Oswald,’ he barked. ‘Eyes ahead.’
Chapter Four
Somershill, November 1370
‘So this girl was William’s child?’ said Mother, drawing her hands across her face to pull the skin taut. The effect was disconcerting. For a moment, I saw something of Mother’s youthful beauty, until she relaxed her hands and released her jowls from their hiding place.
‘That’s right,’ I answered.
‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. ‘Not another one.’
‘You knew about this?’ I said.
‘I heard rumours and gossip,’ she replied. ‘As a woman does, in a house like this. And, of course, William’s wife used to make complaints about his behaviour all the time,’ she added. ‘I used to hear the pair of them arguing about his brood of bastards.’
‘Brood?’
She sighed. ‘Yes. There were quite a few of these children, I believe. But it was so long ago, Oswald.’
‘Did you know any of them?’
‘No, no. I think they all died in the Plague, along with William’s wife and legitimate children.’ She cleared her throat. ‘At least that’s what I was told. I didn’t ask too many questions, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’
‘What about Agnes Wheeler? Did you know about her? Or her mother, Beatrice?’
Mother raised her eyes to the ceiling in thought. ‘Wheeler? Um… Wheeler?’ she echoed. ‘There aren’t any Wheelers in Somershill. But I do remember a Beatrice some years ago,’ she said vaguely. ‘She was the daughter of our fewterer, Thomas Westlake. The girl used to come up to the house with her father, when he was readying the hounds for a hunt.’ She puffed a laugh. ‘It must have been her, I suppose. Especially as the foolish girl was always making sheep’s eyes at William.’ Mother gave another puff. ‘And let’s face it. A man of William’s appetite rarely turns down a free meal.’
I couldn’t help but groan at this comment.
‘Oh Oswald,’ she snapped in response. ‘Stop being so prudish. Not all men are as devoted to their wives as you seem to be.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘It might do you some good to be more like your brother William for once. Why not father a few bastards about the estate? Seeing as your own wife is yet to bear you a child, let alone a son.’
I cleared my throat, determined not to rise to this provocation. ‘I have a son, thank you, Mother. I don’t need another.’
‘Yes, but Hugh is at Oxford. And we all know the dangers of being a student in that city, don’t we? Remember the riot on St Scholastica’s Day? Many young noblemen lost their lives. Slaughtered by ignorant townsfolk. Just because a student complained about some wine in a tavern.’
‘That was fifteen years ago, Mother,’ I replied. ‘Oxford is very peaceful now and Hugh is in no danger whatsoever.’
‘A man needs more than one heir, Oswald. Look at your own circumstances. You had two older brothers, and yet they both suddenly died.’ She sucked in her cheeks. ‘With only one son, the de Lacy name hangs by the thinnest of threads. It could be cut in a moment. Never forget that. Your first wife was able to bear you a son… though the poor woman died in the process. But your second wife seems to be barren. You do not even have a daughter with the woman.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ I replied, clapping my hands together to indicate that this topic was finished. ‘I’ll remember those wise words. But, in the meantime, would you like me to carry on with my story?’ I said. ‘I can spare a little longer.’
Mother regarded me sourly. Though I had been Lord Somershill for twenty years now, Mother still outranked me. At least in her own mind. It was her prerogative to start and end a conversation, and not mine. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard quite enough today. Come back in the morning.’
* * *
That night I ate supper in the solar with my wife Filomena, my sister Clemence and her son Henry. It was an awkward occasion, especially as Henry was seated next to Filomena, and was refusing to speak in anything but a succession of mumbles. Though my nephew was twenty years old and now as tall as a tree, Henry still had the capacity to behave like an awkward child, particularly in Filomena’s presence.
I knew the reason for this behaviour, of course, as my beautiful Venetian wife often provoked such a reaction in young men, causing them to blush and fidget whenever they saw her. It seemed that Henry’s fixation was growing more chronic by the day, however. His eyes endlessly followed Filomena about the room – until she looked at him, that is – at which point he would cast his gaze to the floor, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. If they were seated together at the dinner table then Henry found himself almost unable to speak. Just to make matters worse, Clemence, seemingly ignorant of the true cause of her son’s bashfulness, would always attempt to use these opportunities to bring her son out of his shell.
‘What is your opinion on that theory, Henry?’ Clemence might say. Or: ‘You used to know that boy, didn’t you?’ Or: ‘What do you think we should do, Henry? You have a good eye for these matters.’ As a younger boy, Henry had always reacted to his mother’s barrage of questions by stuttering an answer. As he became older, he had developed a mastery of the insouciant shrug, knowing that this embarrassed his mother in company.
That particular evening Clemence was attempting to drag some information from Henry about a young woman called Matilda de Graveney – a girl whom Clemence considered to be a potential match for her son. Henry clearly didn’t want to talk on this subject, especially in front of Filomena, but Clemence didn’t read the signs and persisted, like a judge cross-questioning a witness in court. It didn’t help matters that Filomena kept throwing Henry sympathetic and encouraging smiles, in the hope that this would ease his embarrassment and persuade him to talk. My wife meant well, but these morsels of her attention were causing a level of anxiety in the young man that was almost painful to observe.
‘Does Matilda like hawking?’ Clemence asked Henry, as she spooned some egg custard into her mouth. Henry replied with the usual rise and fall of his shoulders, a tactic that did not deter my sister. Clemence continued. ‘You really should invite Matilda and her sisters to Versey Castle. It would give you the opportunity to show them our estate and advance your suit. And, of course, we have
some of the best hunting forests in Kent, so she is bound to be impressed.’
This was an exaggeration, but I wasn’t in the mood to contradict my sister. If Clemence wanted to embroider the merits of Versey – the estate she had gained through her marriage – then I was minded to keep quiet. Such boasting stopped her from complaining that Somershill had come to me, based solely on my sex, even though she was my older sibling.
Clemence pointed her spoon at Henry. ‘You really should get on with it, you know. I’ve heard that Hugh Swanland has been courting Matilda.’
‘They are betrothed,’ replied Henry with a groan.
‘Not formally,’ said Clemence. ‘Her aunt told me that Matilda’s family might be open to a superior suitor. And Matilda has no brothers, you know. So there would be a lot for us to gain from such a union. The de Graveneys have all of the land to the north of the Darent.’
At this Henry stood up and stalked out of the room, before stomping loudly down the steps to the Great Hall.
‘Where are you going?’ Clemence called after him. ‘Come and finish your custard, Henry. It’s good for you. It will balance your bile.’
‘God’s bones, Clemence,’ I said, once Henry was out of earshot. ‘You’re sounding more and more like Mother. Soon you’ll be telling him to eat more fish to improve his seed.’
Clemence responded with a fierce flash of her dark eyes, before placing the spoon next to her bowl and composing herself. ‘Talking of Mother. How is she?’ She paused to purse her lips. ‘I would visit more often, but you’ve been hogging all of her time.’
‘Nonsense,’ I replied, knowing the exact way to counter this. ‘You are welcome to visit Mother at any time.’ I pointed towards the passageway that led from this solar into the private bedchambers. ‘She is only a few feet away.’
Sensing an argument was brewing between myself and Clemence, Filomena quickly rose to her feet and made her excuses, claiming that it was time to join our guests in the Great Hall. My wife dusted down her dress, gave me a sweet smile and followed Henry down the stairs.
Clemence glanced at Filomena’s fitted green kirtle with a peeved expression and then pointedly smoothed her own loose skirts across her knees. In recent years, my older sister had taken to dressing like a nun – in a plain black tunic and a long veil, with a string of rosary beads hanging from her belt. Clemence might have been a widow, but there was no reason for her to dress with such drab austerity. I could never tell whether this clothing was an attempt at genuine spirituality, or simply an affectation? In any case, I made sure not to ask.
‘Filomena is in a hurry to get downstairs,’ remarked Clemence, using that judgmental tone that she reserved for my wife.
‘She doesn’t like it when we quarrel,’ I replied.
My sister grunted a laugh. ‘I think her eagerness has more to do with our guest,’ she said. ‘Sir John has promised to tell everybody a new tale tonight.’ She sniffed derisively. ‘Something about the beast of Damascus, I believe.’ She rearranged the thick fold of cloth that hung about her chin. ‘Where on earth did you find that man, Oswald?’ she said with a sigh. ‘He’s dreadful.’
‘Sir John is an old friend,’ I said. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’
Clemence raised an eyebrow. Did she know that this was a lie?
‘I enjoy his company,’ I added, feeling the need to defend my guest.
‘But did you have to invite the man to stay here until the spring, Oswald?’ asked Clemence. ‘I find his stories highly improbable.’
‘Sir John is lifting our spirits,’ I replied. ‘I’m pleased he is here.’
‘But he eats like a horse,’ she said. ‘It must be costing a great deal to feed him. And when he sucks bones at the table, it is enough to make me feel sick.’
‘It’s a custom he picked up when sailing, I believe. I’ve barely noticed it.’ Which was not true, but I couldn’t tell my sister that I found Sir John’s manners equally disturbing. She was looking for any excuse to criticise the man.
Clemence frowned. ‘Where did you say that you met him?’ she asked me. ‘I can’t say that I’ve ever heard his name before.’
I mumbled something about London, not wanting to reveal the true story behind my friendship with Sir John for fear of ridicule. I couldn’t admit to my sister that I’d only met the man for the first time in the summer and subsequently invited him to Somershill on a whim. That this invitation had been a gesture intended to prove to my wife that I had friends, after Filomena had accused me of being a recluse. That I had quickly regretted this reckless invitation, when Sir John had accepted immediately, leaving me to wonder why his diary was so free?
Luckily this arrangement had turned out well for both of us. Sir John, seemingly impoverished after a life of travelling, was happy to earn his keep by entertaining the household each night with lurid descriptions of his many adventures. In return, I had achieved a far superior result than proving my wife wrong, I had succeeded in delighting her. Filomena now had the company that she craved – a guest to alleviate the boredom of the long winter nights in a rural manor house. Somebody with more conversation than the price of fleeces, the lineage of a ram or the condition of local ditches.
Sir John kept my wife entertained and that was good enough for me. ‘You wanted to speak about Mother, I believe?’ I said, quickly changing the subject.
Clemence cleared her throat. ‘What is there to say, Oswald? Each time I go into her bedchamber, Mother pretends to be asleep. I sit and pray with her, but only until her snoring becomes too bothersome.’ My sister paused for a moment and felt at the beads of her rosary. ‘I’m sure that she does it on purpose.’
Excessive praying was another of Clemence’s recently acquired affectations, often conducted in public, with the expectation that others would participate, or at least have the courtesy to remain silent. It was a habit that Mother had struggled to respect when in good health, so it was hardly surprising that she could not tolerate it now, on her deathbed.
‘Why not return home to Versey?’ I suggested. ‘I can call you here very quickly, if Mother’s condition worsens. It is less than a day’s ride from Somershill.’
Clemence thought this over, trying to determine whether or not I had some secret motive. ‘No, no. I must stay here. I want to ensure that Mother has a good death,’ she replied. ‘She must repent of her sins before she quits this earth.’
‘The priest is always close at hand,’ I told her. ‘He can administer the Last Sacraments at a moment’s notice.’
Clemence gave me a sidelong glance. ‘And are Mother’s affairs in order?’
I couldn’t help but sigh at this question, for this was the true reason that my sister had stationed herself at Somershill and would not leave until Mother’s body was buried beside the family chapel. ‘Yes, Clemence,’ I replied. ‘I have not interfered with Mother’s will since we last spoke on this subject.’ I put my hand to my chin and pretended to be thinking. ‘Now… when was that? Oh yes,’ I said with a flourish. ‘It was yesterday, wasn’t it?’ I patted the ends of my fingers onto the back of her hand. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ I said mockingly. ‘Mother has not changed her mind. You still inherit all of her jewellery.’
Clemence withdrew her hand sharply in obvious offence, but couldn’t hide a sly and satisfied smile at the mention of her inheritance, even though she was seldom seen wearing any jewellery, other than a simple crucifix. Indeed, all of Mother’s polished gemstones, gilded brooches and enamelled rings would go un noticed beneath Clemence’s copious folds of black clothing. Filomena was the member of our family who liked to wear jewellery, but unfortunately my wife was not to be bequeathed a single copper pendant nor an iron hairpin.
‘I’m not worried about the will,’ Clemence lied. ‘I only ask about Mother’s preparedness for death, because it’s important that she’s severed all links to the material world,’ she added. ‘Otherwise her time in Purgatory will be long, no matter how much I pray for her.’
/> ‘Mother has forsaken all her worldly goods,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I am relieved to hear that,’ said Clemence. ‘But what about forgiveness, Oswald? You know that Mother must pardon all those who have harmed her. Otherwise she will suffer eternal damnation.’
How could I tell my sister the truth? That I was spending hours at my mother’s bedside, seeking her forgiveness for a matter that must never, ever come to Clemence’s attention.
‘We’re working on Mother’s forgiveness,’ I said. ‘As you know, it has not always been one of Mother’s best qualities.’
Clemence cocked her head to one side. ‘Well, I disagree. I think she’s forgiven a great deal over the years,’ she said darkly, before rising to her feet. ‘Particularly when it concerns you.’
* * *
The next morning, I took up my post again at Mother’s side, after the maid had fed her a watery porridge and a cup of nettle ale. Mother was wearing a mantle that was richly embroidered with silk threads and amber beads – so she had not forsaken all of her worldly goods. Not yet, at least.
We talked for a while about the weather and the family, once she had bidden me to pull back the drapes about her bed. Mother’s physician, the disagreeable Crouch, had ordered the maid to keep these drapes closed all day, but what harm was there in some daylight and fresh air? Mother was dying, so there was no need for her to end her days in this dark suffocation. And anyway, I needed Mother to remain as alert as possible in the time we had left. I could not accept forgiveness from a defeated woman. Mother needed to pardon me whilst fully in charge of her senses.
Once she was relaxed and attentive, I began again.
Chapter Five
Kent, June 1349
We had known plague was coming. Who didn’t? We had all read the letter from the Bishop of Winchester, written the previous autumn, in which he described the dangers that were approaching from the Continent. We knew about the foulness of the disease, the speed at which it spread and the difficulties we would experience in dealing with the dead. But, somehow, in June 1349, the Plague had not yet reached our small corner of Kent. Instead it had marched its way to London and forgotten to stop.