The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  Peter took a moment and then dropped his backside onto the bed, wiping his brow as his anger dispelled.

  I continued. ‘And it’s not just this code that’s damning. I spoke to Brother James about Merek, and he described a very different man to your portrayal. According to James, Merek was a lecher. A womaniser.’

  Brother Peter shook his head, but did not look up to face me. ‘That’s not true,’ he said. ‘James is mistaken. Merek was a little odd, that’s all. His interest in poor women was motivated by his concerns for their welfare. Nothing else.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Well, you should.’

  ‘I think Merek was the man who attacked Agnes,’ I said. ‘That’s why she spat those words at me before she died. She was so distraught with fear that she mistook me for him.’

  Peter didn’t look up, but continued to shake his head in denial.

  His reaction annoyed me. ‘Come on, Brother Peter. You cannot continue to blindly protest Merek’s innocence,’ I said. ‘Not when there is all this evidence against him.’

  ‘What evidence?’ he hissed.

  ‘Merek was known to loiter around the poor women in Stonebrook,’ I replied. ‘Brother James called him a lecher. And now I find the names of the missing women, secretly written in Merek’s psalter.’

  Brother Peter raised his eyes to mine with wearied exasperation. A look that he reserved almost solely for my benefit. ‘I warned you to keep away from this, Oswald,’ he said.

  ‘Merek has written the names of the missing women in code,’ I repeated. ‘Why would he record their names like this if he wasn’t involved?’

  I studied Peter’s face for a moment. There were heavy bags under his eyes and his cheeks were flushed. ‘Oh Oswald,’ he groaned, wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you couldn’t be more wrong.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Somershill, November 1370

  I tapped Mother on the shoulder to see if she were still awake, only to find that she didn’t respond. I drew closer, panicking that she might have died while I was talking, before I detected her chest rising and falling. For a moment, I saw my letter, poking out from the neckline of her chemise. In an instant, I felt myself reach forward, wanting to pluck the letter from its hiding place – having to fight against the strong draw of this temptation.

  I strode out of the bedchamber before I changed my mind, finding that Thomas Crouch was hanging around in the passageway, wearing an expectant face and holding his jar of greedy leeches. I was already feeling unsettled, so his presence did nothing to improve my mood. Why could Mother not be left to die quietly without being decorated with these creatures? Crouch might have argued that her yellow bile needed dampening, but he risked draining her life spirit away.

  Angered by this thought, I escorted Crouch to the gatehouse, and told him not to return to Somershill until he was called upon. He objected, of course, arguing that Mother’s health was too fragile to be deprived of his redoubtable skills, but I insisted that he leave the house, find a room at a local tavern and not return before being expressly invited. I gave him this warning. Should I find him hanging around Mother’s room without my approval, then he would spend a night in my gaol house. This final threat was enough to secure his cooperation, and he was soon seen scampering away towards the village, clutching his bag of clothes and box of dubious remedies. I could only hope that he had not done too much damage already. I needed Mother to stay alive to hear the end of my story.

  * * *

  That evening, we were gathered at the supper table, eating one of my least favourite meals – one that was often served in the winter months – salted herrings and wheat bread. At least the herrings were not smoked, since the stink of that particular dish could linger throughout the house for many days.

  Our resident entertainer Sir John was in an exuberant mood, having consumed too much of our Gascon wine for his own good. Usually his stories were sensible-enough recollections of his journeys. The style of boat he had sailed in. A description of the unfamiliar architecture and strange customs of some foreign land. Even an example of an unfamiliar language he had picked up from a sailor, an innkeeper or a lover. But that evening he told a tale that would stretch the credulity of the most gullible of listeners.

  By all accounts, Sir John had sailed to a lonely island in the Mediterranean, only to find that this outcrop of rock was populated entirely by a race of giants. Men with a single eye that was situated in the centre of their chests. These men (he didn’t mention any females) had, over the centuries, pulled up all of the many trees that once grew on this island, so that they might use the trunks to fight one another to the death. The winner subsequently eating the loser. This act of self-destruction had ended when the last of the trees had disappeared, leading the giants that remained to finally call a truce. Since that time, this strange race had survived instead by luring sailors to their shores with their sweet singing, (a story that was starting to sound suspiciously like the myth of the sirens). Once they had plundered the shipwrecks, they then ate the sailors – preserving those men that they couldn’t manage at the first sitting in salt.

  It was, of course, a preposterous story, but I seemed to be the only person about the table who wasn’t thoroughly taken in. I’m afraid to say that Filomena had seemed particularly enthralled by the tale – cooing and gasping at every absurd detail. I should have laughed it off, but unfortunately Mother’s theory about Sir John and my wife had once again worked its way under my skin like a stubborn splinter. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t help but feel my childish jealousy and suspicion return. So, when Filomena drew the drapes about our bed that night, I made the mistake of broaching the subject.

  ‘What did you think of Sir John’s tale about the giants?’ I asked her.

  ‘I thought it was wonderful, but also terrifying,’ she answered, pulling the sheets over her chest. ‘To think that there are such evil creatures in the world. Monsters who would kill men with such cruelty.’

  ‘You don’t believe it, do you?’ I asked, making sure to add a contemptuous laugh.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh come on, Filomena,’ I said. ‘You lived in Venice for many years. Did you ever hear of a sailor being lured onto an island by a singing, one-eyed giant?’

  ‘The sea is large,’ she said. ‘Many men disappear when sailing. Maybe this is the reason?’

  ‘So how did Sir John escape?’ I asked. ‘Why wasn’t he lured to his death?’

  Filomena fiddled with the sheets and rearranged the bolster. ‘Weren’t you listening, Oswald?’ she said. ‘Sir John and the other men stuffed their ears with strips of linen so that they couldn’t hear the singing. They were clever enough not to fall into this trap.’ I didn’t remember this detail of the story, not least because I had been studying Filomena’s face while Sir John was speaking, rather than paying full attention to his far-fetched tale.

  ‘It’s nonsense,’ I said. ‘The man is making the whole thing up. You must be able to see that?’

  ‘I don’t agree. Sir John has travelled so much more widely than we have.’ There was a distinct note of rebuke in her voice. ‘We never go anywhere beyond this parish. So who are we to challenge his tale?’

  ‘Sir John drank far too much of my wine tonight, and his imagination ran away with itself.’ I laughed again, this time with genuine mirth. ‘A man with a single eye in the middle of his chest? As if that could be true.’

  I was subjected to a long silence in return for this comment. ‘I thought Sir John was your friend, Oswald?’ said Filomena at length. ‘But now I see you don’t like him very much.’

  I shrugged. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You pull faces when he’s talking.’

  ‘So do you,’ I said.

  ‘What sort of faces?’

  I hesitated to answer, knowing that I would be straying into dangerous territory. ‘It
doesn’t matter.’

  Another long silence followed before she turned her back on me and muttered something in Venetian. A rebuke about jealous husbands.

  I fell asleep in a bad mood, and woke in a worse one, resolving not to return to Mother’s bedchamber for a while. In the meantime, Clemence took over this duty with enthusiasm. However, after two days of my sister’s prayers and hectoring company, I received the message that Mother was begging for me to return.

  * * *

  I entered Mother’s room to find Clemence had once again drawn the drapes about the bed, which was an unnecessary precaution, since the day outside was mild and the room itself was adequately warm. It made me wonder if Thomas Crouch had been re-admitted during my absence, since the removal of light and air was one of his favourite remedies. It is my own opinion that illness needs to be ventilated and showered with daylight, since an accumulation of heat and darkness can lead to lethargy and even melancholia. And so I drew back the drapes to throw some light across Mother’s face, finding that she had a bloom to her cheeks, which gave me to believe that Crouch and his leeches hadn’t been here after all. It was a consolation.

  ‘There you are, Oswald,’ said Mother, making an effort to sit up. ‘I thought you’d abandoned me.’

  I must admit that the idea had crossed my mind, and I considered telling her the reason for this – but then I risked being drawn into another conversation about Filomena and Sir John.

  ‘You were very tired when I last visited,’ I said. ‘You fell asleep while I was speaking.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I heard every word.’

  I decided to test her. ‘Can you remember where we ended, then?’

  ‘Of course I can remember, Oswald,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’ll carry on. If you recall, I had deciphered some coded words written inside Brother Merek’s psalter.’

  She frowned for a moment – clearly not remembering this detail at all – before realising that she didn’t want to make this admission. She quickly changed her expression to a thoughtful smile. ‘Just run through that part of your story again,’ she said. ‘I think you missed out some important details.’ Before I was able to gloat, she added. ‘You do not consider your listener with enough care, Oswald. Your tale is more muddled than a stirred egg. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m listening to the white or the yolk.’

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer it if we talked about the weather?’ I suggested. ‘If not, Clemence has given me some prayers we could read together?’

  This was threat enough. ‘No prayers, thank you, Oswald,’ she said quickly. ‘Please summarise the last few points of your tale and then continue.’

  ‘If you remember, Mother, the words I had decoded in Brother Merek’s psalter were the names of the missing women. When I confronted Brother Peter about this, he became upset and claimed that I couldn’t have been more wrong about Merek. That my theory was very mistaken.’

  ‘What theory was that?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘My theory that Merek was befriending women from the village. Using his position as a monk to gain their trust, before he lured them to their deaths.’

  Mother cleared her throat. A sure sign that she was about to lie. ‘Yes, of course. I remember now.’ She waved her hand at me. ‘Well, carry on, Oswald. Carry on.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Kent, June 1349

  Peter’s complexion was permanently flushed – his cheeks laced with a web of small veins, whilst the end of his nose became a little more inflamed and pitted with each year. It was a drinker’s face, of course, and one that I had become accustomed to seeing. But that afternoon his complexion had reddened so vividly, that I wondered if he was about to suffer a seizure of the heart.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ I asked him.

  ‘This is your fault, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Making up these foolish lies about Merek. I’ve had enough of you.’

  ‘Then how do you explain these names in his psalter?’ I asked.

  Peter hesitated, and then rubbed his hands through his hair. ‘It’s better that you don’t know, Oswald. It really is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because…’ He couldn’t finish this sentence. Instead, he rose to his feet and headed for the small arched window of our cell. As he leant against the sill, the thin light fell onto one side of his head, picking out the contours of his careworn face. He spoke without looking back at me.

  ‘There is a good reason why Merek wrote the names of those women in his psalter, Oswald,’ he said. ‘He was doing what you’re doing. Trying to find out why they had disappeared.’

  This took me by surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because he told me, of course,’ said Peter, spinning around to look me in the face. ‘I was his ally. His confidant.’

  ‘Are you sure he was telling you the truth?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Oswald,’ said Peter with a scowl. ‘Merek befriended those women because he wanted to help them. It was the act of a true Christian.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You see. You’re not the only one who cares. Merek’s visits to Stonebrook had nothing to do with lustful thoughts or craving female company. Brother James was wrong about that.’

  I felt confused and couldn’t answer.’

  Peter continued. ‘Now can you understand why I found your accusations so offensive? Merek was only trying to help those women, and yet you seemed determined to believe the very worst of him.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ I asked. ‘And why have you stood in the way of my efforts to find answers, when you say that you helped Merek?’

  ‘For a very simple reason. I was afraid for you, Oswald. Merek’s investigation ended in his disappearance. For all we know, he’s dead.’

  ‘Do you think he’s been murdered, then?’ I asked. ‘By the same man who’s taken the women?’

  Peter hesitated to answer. ‘In all probability,’ he replied before taking another long pause. ‘Merek was getting too close to finding answers.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he’d discovered?’ I could tell that Peter didn’t really want to answer this question. ‘If you think that Merek was murdered, then you need to tell me what you know.’ I insisted.

  Peter pulled at the mole on his neck. ‘I only know that Merek had spoken to one of the women in Stonebrook, and that she’d told him something important. She gave him a name, I believe.’

  ‘And Merek didn’t tell you this name?’

  Peter shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. Merek promised to share this information with me, once he’d made a further investigation.’ He paused. ‘But then he disappeared, and it was too late.’

  This news was frustrating, but not completely disheartening. ‘So I just need to find this woman in Stonebrook,’ I said. ‘And see what she said to—’

  Before I could finish my sentence, Peter had grabbed me by the wrist. ‘No Oswald,’ he said. ‘Have you not heard me? It’s too dangerous to continue. Merek was murdered when he persisted with this investigation. I will not allow you to suffer the same fate.’

  ‘So we do nothing? We allow more women to disappear? We turn a blind eye and let this man continue?’

  Peter was momentarily lost for words. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me. But we must be cautious.’

  ‘Why?’

  Peter released my hand. ‘Because there are worse dangers out there than a murderer, Oswald. There is a plague raging. That is why. This is no time for running around and looking for missing women.’

  ‘There is no plague in Stonebrook,’ I replied. ‘So, there’s no reason why I cannot carry on.’

  Well then,’ he said. ‘You should listen to this.’ He felt about his habit, slipping his hands beneath his belt to pull out a fold of parchment. ‘It’s from my friend Brother Robert, the infirmarer at Lowhampton Abbey,’ he said, waving it in my face. ‘I received it yesterday, and if this do
esn’t frighten you then nothing will.’

  Peter unfolded the letter and squinted at the writing. ‘The devastation of plague is monstrous,’ he told me. ‘Far worse than we’ve been led to believe. Robert says that they’ve lost nearly all their monks. And it is not a pleasant way to die, Oswald. It starts with a stiffness of the limbs and a fever, before great boils appear at the neck and armpits. But these swellings are not filled with the usual puss. Instead it is blackened blood! Robert has tried everything to save the lives of his brethren. He’s even lanced these boils as a last resort. It releases the infection, only for the patient to die of shock.’

  Peter heaved a long sigh, refolded the letter and placed it softly in his lap. ‘This is the reality of the world outside these walls, Oswald,’ he said. ‘So, please listen to me. I will help you with this investigation myself, when the Plague has abated. If he still lives, then we will find this murderer and we will bring him to justice together. But in the meantime, we must stay here and we must stay safe.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I agree.’

  Peter frowned at the speed of my response and then leant over to study my face. ‘Are you telling me the truth, Oswald?’ he asked. ‘Because this is your last chance. If you defy me again, then I will lock you in the lunatic’s cell and keep the key at my waist.’

  I bowed my head solemnly and made this promise, though I had no intention of keeping it. Peter would forgive any of my transgressions in the end, despite his threats. I was completely secure in his love and affection. And as for his lecture on the dangers of plague – I thought it was an exaggeration, designed to frighten me into submission. Peter could not deter me from this investigation. My course had been set the moment that Agnes drowned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Somershill, November 1370

  Mother opened a single eye to fix me with a beady, unnerving stare. It was a look that I knew well, as I had been on the receiving end of such scrutiny since childhood. I was being examined and found wanting. ‘You do surprise me with this story, Oswald,’ she said finally.