by S. D. Sykes
‘The other brothers will ask where I am,’ I said.
‘I’ll tell them that you have a headache.’
‘They’ll say I’m carrying plague again.’
‘No, they won’t,’ he whispered as he blew out the candle. ‘If I say you have a headache, then you have a headache.’ He opened the door softly. ‘Now go to sleep.’
* * *
I tried to rest, as Peter had advised, hoping that the darkness of the cell would help – but continuous, uninterrupted sleep eluded me for that night and the following two. Unfortunately this bout of insomnia gave me such a pallor that the other brothers became convinced that I’d contracted the Plague. It didn’t matter how many times Peter said that I was simply suffering from a headache, a summer cold or even a mild case of the Flux, the rumour soon took hold.
I learnt, subsequently, that some of the brothers had wanted to banish me from Kintham immediately, though their voices were silenced by Peter, who would not tolerate a word said against me. If I were truly suffering from plague, as they had asserted, then where were the throbbing buboes and fierce fever that were said to afflict the sick? Peter stood his ground against my detractors, but in the end the Abbot stepped in, instructing Peter to house me in the isolation cell in the gardens, where I was to stay until it could be proven, beyond doubt, that I was not infectious.
I found some solace at last in this isolation, not least because it was a break from the endless, tiresome routines of monastic life. Peter visited regularly, bringing decoctions and tisanes he said would calm my nerves – though typically these contained more brandy than herbs. His own nerves might have been cured by brandy, wine, ale or mead – in fact, Peter was a dedicated and steady drinker, never without some medicinal tonic in his leather flask – but brandy did not soothe my spirits. It did not prevent my mind from going over and over the events of Agnes’s death and contemplating the terrible prospect that I had killed my own niece.
I tried to accept Peter’s assertion that none of this was my fault, but I couldn’t even close my eyes at night without seeing Agnes’s body – laid out on the crude wooden table in her mother’s dark cottage. She still wore the blank expression that had previously disturbed me, but now that I studied this memory, I could perceive something different in the girl’s features. I tried not to see it, but it was there each time I closed my eyes. It was my brother William’s face – his long brown lashes fringing a pair of proud, almond-shaped eyes. The slightly arrogant pout of his full lips. The ears that poked out from beneath his hair. It was clearer each time I closed my eyes and saw Agnes’s face. She was his daughter.
Peter had soundly warned me against writing to William, but I knew that it would be far worse for me if my brother heard this story about Agnes from somebody else. Beatrice Wheeler might not have been able to read or write, but I feared that she would find some other way of telling William, especially if she suspected that I hadn’t kept my mumbled promise.
With this in mind, I decided that I would write to my brother at Somershill without telling Peter. Kintham was not yet completely cut off from the outside world – it was only the oblates and novices who were confined to the grounds. I knew that I would be able to persuade one of the lay brothers to deliver a letter to Somershill on my behalf. These men were recruited from the poorest families in neighbouring villages, to labour in the fields and gardens of the monastery in return for accommodation, food and the most basic of educations. They did not take the holy orders, and they had no personal wealth, so it was well known that they were often open to inducements. In fact, I used my supply of spare brandy to persuade one of them – Brother John, a man regularly hauled before the Abbot for petty offences – to bring me a square of parchment, a pot of ink and a quill from the scriptorium. And then I set about writing my letter of confession to William.
I started that letter three times. Each time I washed away the ink and began again. Peter was right. How do you inform a person that his daughter is dead, when this girl’s existence was unknown to him in the first place? How do you explain your own part in her death, without sounding like you are making pathetic excuses? How do you tell him that this girl was attacked and probably raped before you found her, and that her mind was so disturbed that she waded into a dangerous river rather than accept your help? It was impossible. My hand shook with apprehension each time I dipped the tip of my pen into the black ink. If I had been weighed down by guilt before, I now found it crushing.
In the end, I gave up. I wiped down the parchment for one last time, removing all my attempts at this letter. There was only one way forward for me. I could not write to William with this news, but equally I could not hide away in this monastery and do nothing. I would tell William about his daughter – but not before I had discovered the truth. Not before I had found Agnes’s attacker and brought the man to justice.
Chapter Six
I began the next morning, whilst I still enjoyed the advantages of the isolation cell, where I was not bound by any of the restrictions imposed on the other novices. I set off after breakfast – once I was sure that Peter had returned to the infirmary – pulling on my cloak and creeping away through the vegetable gardens towards the forest. It was a walk of six or seven miles to Stonebrook, so I didn’t dawdle. The day was clement, and the paths were dry.
I reached the village by mid-morning, holding back at the forest edge to observe Stonebrook before entering. I felt apprehensive about returning here after my last visit, wondering how I might be received – but I was troubled by another concern as well. According to Peter, there had been no cases of plague beyond Fallowsden – but I was still cautious about mixing with new people.
As I watched from the safety of the trees, I could see the villagers going about their usual lives – a gang of children were playing with long sticks and leather balls in the street. A man was leading a cow across the green, its sagging udder swinging between a pair of bandy legs. A group of women were laughing together as they washed their sheets in the clear waters of the brook. If this village was beset with plague, then it certainly wasn’t causing any disturbance.
Deciding that it was safe enough to leave my hiding place, I slipped past the humble village church, soon passing a newly occupied grave that was marked by a mound of tilled soil adorned with flowers and a short crucifix. The grave bore no name, but I knew immediately that it belonged to Agnes Wheeler. For a moment I felt compelled to stop and say something to Agnes, but I moved on quickly after realising that my presence had attracted the attention of some small boys. I had noticed them earlier, removing stones from the soil in an adjacent field, but now they had abandoned their work and were peeping over the wall at me. When the smallest boy launched a stone in my direction, I quickly headed for the main street of Stonebrook, and then made sure to march along the centre of this road, rather than skulk along in the shadows. I had been noticed already, so there was little point in trying to hide.
As I continued along this roughly made road, I half-expected Beatrice Wheeler to catch up with me, demanding to know if I had written to my brother yet? Thankfully the woman was nowhere to be seen, though I kept an eye out for her appearance. When I quickly glanced over to her cottage, squeezed between the hay barns and granaries, I noted that her single door was firmly shut. This was a relief, so I pulled up my hood and kept walking, sensing that I still had an audience. At either side of my peripheral vision, I could see village women standing at the doorways of their untidy, lopsided homes and watching my progress along the road. Some rested a baby on their hip. Others had their sleeves rolled up while they took a break from some chore or other in order to get a good look at me. They were not hostile, but neither were they welcoming. But who could blame them for this cool reception? The last time I came to Stonebrook, I had arrived with the body of a dead girl.
I bowed my head every so often and offered them God’s blessing, hoping to display all of the humility expected of a Benedictine, until I finally reached my desti
nation – the large, oak-framed home of Maud Woodstock. I quickly knocked and waited, making sure to affect a studious admiration of the fanciful hinge straps across the door, rather than turn around to look at the gang of children, dogs and general busybodies that had collected behind me. When nobody answered, I knocked again until Maud herself opened the door and invited me inside.
She greeted me with one of her smiles, but she also looked flustered – apologising for having taken her time to answer with the explanation that she and her maid had been attending to her father, as the old man had just fallen out of bed. As I stepped over the threshold, I heard some soft, low moaning coming from somewhere on the upper floor of the house, which prompted me to ask Maud if she needed any help with her father. She thanked me for this offer, but then assured me that the old man was now back in his bed, and had been given a soothing tonic. As her face relaxed into another smile, I was struck again by this woman’s singular beauty. The strong, symmetrical features and those eyes – so intensely light and blue.
She beckoned for me to follow her inside, before leading me along a wide passageway that was surfaced with stone slabs rather than the usual beaten earth of the typical village home. We passed a kitchen and buttery to our right, and then entered a large central hall to our left – a cavernous two-storey room, furnished with a fine oak table, a selection of chairs and benches, and an elaborate wrought-iron brazier. Maud stopped in the middle of the room until I had said something flattering about the impressive dimensions and elegant tapestries, before we stepped through another door into a parlour – a room that was much smaller and friendlier than the hall, and where Maud clearly spent most of her time.
She quickly moved her embroidery from a box chair and indicated that I should take this seat, before she left to rouse her servant – an articulated twig of a girl who soon appeared with a pitcher of small beer, and a slice of custard pie. Once the food was laid out before me on a small table, the servant girl scampered away as if I might be about to bite her. I wanted to ignore the food, since I had come here to talk about Agnes and the other missing women – but it looked so delicious compared to the miserable fare at Kintham. The temptation was too strong and I couldn’t help but bolt down the custard pie like a starving dog, aware that Maud was watching me closely as I ate.
‘Don’t they feed you at the monastery, Brother Oswald?’ she asked, taking a seat next to mine.
‘Not like this,’ I replied honestly, feeling my melancholia lift for the first time in days. The healing power of good food is astonishing.
‘I make the custard pie myself,’ said Maud. ‘With saffron and cream. My mother gave me the recipe before she died.’ She paused for a moment and let her lips curl into a smile. ‘I have an ox pie in the kitchen as well. Cooked to another family recipe. Would you care to try it?’
I shook my head. ‘No, thank you,’ I said quickly, although the idea of this pie was very appealing. ‘I’m not allowed to eat the meat of a four-footed beast. Not unless I’m unwell.’
‘And are you unwell?’ she asked, pretending to look serious. ‘You do look a little pale, if I’m honest. I’m sure that some meat would warm your blood?’
‘No, thank you,’ I replied, realising that I was being teased. ‘How is Beatrice Wheeler?’ I said, making an effort to change the subject. ‘I’ve been worried about her.’
Maud’s face fell. ‘She’s still in mourning, I’m afraid,’ she said, the mischief gone from her eyes. ‘I’ve taken her some bread and cheese in recent days. It’s only simple food, but it’s gone some way to restoring her spirits.’
‘Perhaps I should go and see her?’ I suggested, though the idea of such a visit filled me with dread.
Maud winced a little at this suggestion. ‘No. I wouldn’t do that, Brother Oswald,’ she said quickly. ‘The woman is still in distress.’ She forced a smile, and briefly touched my arm. ‘Why don’t you leave such a visit for a few weeks? I’m sure that Beatrice would be pleased to see you in the future. But only once she has found more peace.’
‘Oh,’ I said, taking her meaning. ‘I see.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Maud. ‘She isn’t angry with you. She’s just sad about her daughter. I hope you understand?’
We sat in an awkward silence for a while. My hands fidgeted, whereas Maud placed hers demurely into her lap, one set of long fingers resting over the other. In a different woman, this gesture might have seemed meek or even deferential, but not in Maud’s case. I had met forceful women in the past – not least in my own family – but I had rarely come across a woman who radiated this quiet, self-assured power. It was unnerving. I felt my cheeks colour and my heart beat faster, so I moved my fidgeting fingers to clutch at the wooden crucifix that hung from my neck and let my fingertips glide over its smooth surface. It was a self-comforting action that I hoped would ward away the unwelcome, embarrassing thoughts that were beginning to intrude into my mind. There was no doubt about this. Maud Woodstock was the most beautiful woman I had ever met and I felt disturbingly excited to be sitting alone with her.
Brother Thomas, the novice master, had prepared his pupils for situations such as this. His recommendation, I now remembered, was to poke a finger into the flame of a candle when overcome with lust. According to Thomas, the pain of burning skin was a violent but effective method of warding off the seductive lure of a woman. In the absence of any candles, I could only rely on the wooden crucifix for help – though this holy object was failing miserably to stop my eyes from wandering to the mounds of Maud’s breasts – so tantalisingly visible under the cloth of her fitted tunic.
I looked away when she gave a polite cough. Had she read my mind? I sincerely hoped not. ‘So, Oswald,’ she said, before pausing. ‘May I use that name? It seems so cumbersome to keep calling you Brother Oswald.’ She paused to smile again at me.
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, now clutching my crucifix so tightly that my knuckles had gone white.
‘Thank you, Oswald,’ she said, standing up to pour me some more ale from the pitcher. ‘In that case, you may call me Maud,’ she said, as she filled my cup. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, but I assume this isn’t a social visit?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, once I’d released the crucifix and quickly downed the ale – hoping this drink would do a better job of calming my nerves. Unfortunately it only caused me to blurt out my intentions, in a rather childlike fashion. ‘I want to find the man who attacked Agnes,’ I announced, wiping the froth of the ale from my lips. ‘And I’m concerned about the other missing women, of course,’ I added, immediately aware that they sounded like an afterthought. ‘I believe their disappearances are connected.’
‘I see,’ said Maud, taking a seat, but continuing to watch me intently.
‘You were very kind to me when I last came here,’ I said. ‘I appreciated your intervention with John Roach.’ I paused for a moment. ‘I wanted to ask for your help again.’
‘You know that the Hue and Cry discovered nothing?’ she said. ‘Though Master Roach claims they spent hours searching the forest.’
I nodded. ‘I’ve heard that,’ I replied. ‘Though I didn’t expect any different,’ I added. ‘Roach didn’t seem very interested.’
Maud raised her eyebrows and gave a small sigh. ‘You’re right, Oswald,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately he’s not interested at all. Even though these disappearances have blighted women’s lives in Stonebrook for many months.’ She paused to rearrange her hands in her lap. ‘Do you realise that many of the women will no longer travel the forest paths alone? We are prisoners in our own homes.’ Her face tightened momentarily into a frown and her cheeks reddened. ‘As if a woman’s life were not suffocating enough already.’
I could tell that she was annoyed with herself for displaying this flare of emotion, as she took a moment to relax by glancing out of the window. While she looked away, I was able to study her profile. Her thick blonde hair was pulled back from her face in the net of a crespine, r
evealing features that were stronger and larger than the average woman’s. Perhaps it was fairer to describe her as handsome, rather than beautiful.
‘Have you felt frightened yourself?’ I asked. Somehow this seemed an unlikely idea, as I couldn’t imagine Maud Woodstock being frightened of anything. And yet the flush returned to her cheeks.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, looking back at me, as she washed away this new show of emotion with a forced smile. ‘Though I’m lucky enough, Oswald. I never have to travel alone. But fear will take over our lives if we’re not careful. Some of the women are already saying there’s a monster in the forest.’ She fixed me with her gaze – her eyes large and so disconcertingly blue. ‘I’m afraid that the people of this village can be very foolish at times. If it’s not demons and devils, then it’s omens and curses.’ She suddenly laughed loudly. ‘Curses indeed,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t believe in such nonsense?’
I shook my head. From an early age, I had refused to believe in anything that couldn’t be seen, heard, or otherwise proved to exist. Of course, this had been a difficult opinion to hold in a monastery, so I had kept it to myself. Brother Peter was the only person who had ever guessed at this fault line in my faith, but he rarely pressed me on the subject. He didn’t want to hear the answer.
‘No. I certainly don’t believe in curses,’ I said. ‘Nor ghosts or demons. I never have done.’
She suddenly clutched my hand in response to this statement. Her touch burnt at my skin – reminding me again, in blunt and undiluted terms, of the pleasures I was about to eschew by becoming a monk. It was only months before I was due to take my vows and commit myself to a life of celibacy. ‘Thank you, Oswald,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you feel the same.’