by S. D. Sykes
‘Then let me stay here, with you,’ I urged Peter, touching his arm to press my point. ‘There’s no reason for me to return to Somershill.’
‘No,’ said Brother Peter, glaring at me again. ‘It’s your father’s decision that you go home. You must respect his will, Oswald.’ This statement stuck in the craw, particularly as Peter had never displayed any respect for my father’s wishes in the past – often expressing the opinion that Henry de Lacy was an avaricious bully who didn’t deserve his title and position.
‘Oh come on, Oswald,’ said William, still seated at the Abbot’s table and still drinking the man’s wine. ‘Don’t be difficult about this. We could do with your company at Somershill. Somebody with some conversation and education at last.’ He gave a jaundiced sigh. ‘Richard is a bore. Father keeps repeating himself. And Mother pines for you.’ He paused. ‘You know that you’ve always been her favourite, Oswald. Remember how she used to love those pretty golden curls?’
I didn’t reply to this comment, which only prompted William to laugh. ‘Oh come on, Little Brother,’ he joked. ‘You can come back to your precious monastery after the Plague has blown over. Then you can take your vows and start working your way up the ladder. You know that we all expect you to take his place one day.’ William nodded at the Abbot. ‘Every noble family should have their own Abbot.’ He winked at me. ‘Isn’t that right? Someone to plead their case to God.’
The Abbot was offended by William’s comments, but was not able to respond with anything but a loud sniff. Such was the privilege of being a de Lacy. It opened doors and shut mouths.
‘So it’s decided,’ said Peter, ending the awkward silence that followed William’s last observation. ‘Oswald will return to Somershill today. I will write to your father when it’s safe for him to return.’ Peter then tipped my elbow. ‘Come along then, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and collect your things.’
With this, he pulled me out of the room, along the passageway and then pushed me into an alcove in the cloister before venting the full force of his anger. ‘Where on earth did you go to last night? I spent hours wandering about the forests. Calling out your name,’ he told me. ‘Hours!’
‘You came to look for me?’
‘Of course I did, Oswald,’ he said. ‘I nearly suffered a catalepsy to the heart, thanks to you.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.’
Two passing novices stopped to watch this altercation, before Peter spun around and told the pair to be on their way. He pulled back my hood. ‘And why are you wounded? Did somebody attack you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘A charcoal burner called Ranulf Sawyer. He tried to kill me.’
‘What?’
‘He’s the man who’s been taking women, Brother Peter.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I followed in Merek’s footsteps, that’s why. I went to speak to the women of Stonebrook.’
Peter rolled his eyes. ‘Even though I expressly forbade you to leave Kintham.’
‘But I found out Sawyer’s name,’ I replied. ‘So it was worth it.’
Peter shook his head in disbelief. ‘And then you went to accost this man on your own, I suppose?’ When I nodded at this, he added. ‘What is the matter with you, Oswald?’ he said. ‘Have you no care for your own life?’
‘I’m not sorry,’ I said adamantly. ‘Sawyer admitted his guilt.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes.’ I paused for a moment. ‘Well, he asked me if I wanted to see the bodies of the missing women?’
Peter started to pull at the mole on his neck. ‘And did you see them?’
I hesitated. ‘Well…, no,’ I said.
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because Sawyer ran off from me.’
‘And you gave chase, I suppose?’ There it was again. That trace of despair in his voice. ‘You pursued a man who’d offered to show you his previous victims. Giving him every opportunity to add you to his collection of dead bodies.’
‘I didn’t think he would attack me,’ I replied, waiting until the novices had passed by. This was their third revolution of the cloister, as they tried their very best to eavesdrop. ‘Sawyer hit me on the back of my head,’ I whispered. ‘He thought he’d killed me, but I’d only passed out. When I came round, I was able to get away and hide.’
Peter put a hand to his forehead and wiped his brow. ‘By the saints, Oswald. This story only gets worse.’
‘And I think Sawyer killed Merek as well,’ I said, determined not to be discouraged by Peter’s reaction.
‘Oh yes? And why’s that?’
‘Because Merek went to see Sawyer as well,’ I replied. ‘About six weeks ago. And then he was never seen again.’
Peter groaned. ‘You could have died. You stupid, stupid fool.’
‘But I didn’t,’ I said. ‘So now we need to hunt down Sawyer with a few of the lay brothers.’
Peter stepped back in surprise. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘You’re returning to Somershill with William.’
‘No. I can’t,’ I said. ‘I need to find Sawyer. He’s a rapist and a murderer.’
Peter grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the alcove. ‘You’re going back to Somershill, Oswald,’ he growled. ‘And that’s the end of the matter. I can’t control you any longer. At least your father might be able to keep you out of trouble.’
‘Let go of me, Peter,’ I yelped as I tried to pull away. But Peter was so much stronger, and I couldn’t escape his grasp. His eyes blazed with fury as he dragged me through Kintham until we reached our cell, whereupon he threw me through the door and slammed it behind us.
We stared at one another in silence, until he finally wiped his brow and took a deep breath. Now that his temper had died down, he walked over to pull back my hood. ‘So this is where Sawyer hit you?’
I nodded.
Peter told me to sit on a stool while he visited the infirmary, returning with a bowl of salted water and a bunch of comfrey leaves. He then sponged the salted water through my matted, bloodied hair, washing the wound until it stung.
‘Please don’t make me go back to Somershill,’ I said, looking up at Peter. ‘Please. We need to find Sawyer.’
He pushed my head back down and continued to wash. ‘You have to go home, Oswald, and that’s the end of it,’ he said, laying some wet comfrey leaves against my wound and pressing them into my scalp. ‘There’s nothing that I can do about it.’
‘But what about Sawyer?’ I asked, as the salted water dribbled down the back of my neck. ‘We need to act quickly, or he’ll get away.’ Peter didn’t answer this. ‘Don’t you care?’ I asked.
‘Of course I care.’
‘Then don’t make me return to Somershill.’
Peter pulled the leaves away. ‘Listen, Oswald,’ he said at length. ‘I’ll seek out Sawyer myself. Does that satisfy you?’
‘But how? You don’t know him.’
‘Yes I do,’ Peter replied. ‘Sawyer’s been burning charcoal in the Abbey’s forests for years.’
I was facing defeat. There was no doubt about that. ‘Will you go today?’ I asked. ‘It has to be today.’
‘Yes, Oswald.’
‘Take others with you, Peter,’ I said. ‘The man is dangerous.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘This wound is enough of a warning.’
‘And if you can’t find him in the forest, speak to Rose Brunham.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She’s Sawyer’s lover.’ I said.
Peter sighed. ‘I warned you about that girl, didn’t I? I told you she was a beggar’s mistress.’ He said, now patting my wound with vinegar.
‘And you will write to me at Somershill?’ I asked, trying not to wince with the pain as the vinegar burnt at my skin. ‘As soon as you’ve found him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you promise me?’ I asked, turning around. I needed to look into his eyes to see his answer. I neede
d to know that Peter was telling me the truth.
‘Yes, Oswald,’ he said solemnly. ‘Of course, I promise you.’
* * *
I packed my spare braies, tunics and winter boots into a hessian sack and joined William in the courtyard. I mounted my horse, said my farewells and I rode for Somershill with my brother William at my side. For many months now I had longed to escape the dismal walls of Kintham Abbey. To be freed of the relentless routines, the petty rivalries, the plain food and the hard beds. But now I wanted nothing more than to stay.
Chapter Nineteen
William and I rode in silence, following a couple of cursory conversations about the heat of the day and the comfort of our saddles. I hadn’t wanted to talk to my brother, but equally I didn’t find this lack of conversation comforting. I knew that I would soon need to tell William the truth about Agnes, especially now that Peter was about to apprehend her attacker. It couldn’t wait much longer. A number of times I cleared my throat, ready to make my confession, only to find that my nerve deserted me at the last moment. I couldn’t predict how William would react to such a story. Although we were both men now, and I was taller than my older brother, I still felt petrified of this solid, muscular man. It was just as if I were a child again and he were my much older brother.
And so we continued in silence, plodding along the narrow paths of the forest, with William leading the way. Since we were riding in single file, I couldn’t help but focus on the back of my brother’s head, finding my eyes continually drawn to the way in which William’s hair curled at the nape of his neck. I’m sorry to say that it prompted a particularly vivid and unpleasant memory – one which I hadn’t thought about for years, but which I now struggled to dismiss.
I had been seven and William had been maybe nineteen or twenty, and I was in trouble for accidentally releasing his favourite hound – a dog named Whitefoot. I’d known it was wrong when I untied his tether, but the poor creature had looked so miserable, secured against a post in the courtyard without any food or shelter. I remember thinking that Whitefoot could do with a run around the lawns. Of course, I hadn’t expected the dog to run off and never return. When William found out that I was responsible for Whitefoot’s disappearance, he had wanted to beat me, except that Mother had stepped in to prevent this from happening.
Not that I went without punishment, of course. The next day I came into the courtyard to find that William was dangling my favourite toy above the well and threatening to let go. It was just a hollow thing, made from thinly cast pewter – a small knight mounted on a horse – but I had treasured this toy dearly since Father had made a show of presenting him to me in front of the family, after returning from a trip to London. Now, as I begged William to hand back my precious knight, my brother only laughed and leant over the well. How clearly I remembered the shape of William’s hair at the nape of his neck as he let my little knight fall into the water far below, where the toy landed with a distant, melancholic plop.
I cast the memory away. That was many years ago. And we were different people now. I had no reason to fear William… but even so, I was not yet ready to tell him about Agnes.
* * *
After an hour or so in the forest, we finally emerged onto the London to Rye road, where we found ourselves heading north against an unexpected sea of travellers. They were family groups, huddles of people who seemed to be carrying all of their worldly goods across their ponies’ haunches, or strapped onto their own backs. Pans, longbows, flails, brooms, baskets and cages stuffed with chickens and ducks. Even goats led by leashes. These groups were accompanied by gaggles of exhausted children, and shadowed by thin dogs that had refused to be abandoned.
It wasn’t hard to guess why these people were on the road. Not that this stopped William from confronting the man at the head of the first group, and demanding to know if he and his family had permission to be travelling? When this man gave a discourteous and evasive answer, William reminded him that a villein cannot simply desert his village because he feels like it. Even tenants must have the permission of their lord before they move away – even if they are escaping plague. The man eventually named his family and parish, before William agreed to let him and his brood of thin-faced children pass. My brother even issued a warning that he intended to report them to their master. But it was an empty threat.
We passed many other such groups in the next hour or so – people who collected at the turns in the road, like piles of dried leaves. William could not threaten to report all of them, so he stopped asking their names or where they usually lived. Instead, we cantered through each group, as William shouted for them to part and let us through.
* * *
Our progress north was steady enough, until we turned a corner to come face to face with the strangest of sights – a group of barechested men, moving towards us in a caterpillar, screaming their prayers to the sky as they walked. At every third or fourth step they struck at their naked backs with whips of knotted thongs. Sharp stones were embedded into each of these knots and were causing a criss-cross of ugly scarring and open wounds across their skin. We approached these men gingerly, as our horses were startled, but our attempts to quickly pass were thwarted, despite William’s demands that they should stand aside. When these men saw my black habit and wooden crucifix they quickly surrounded me, chanting their prayers with more urgency as they grasped at my feet and hands with bloodied fingers.
This was enough for William. He took out his own horse whip and began to thrash at the air until they reluctantly moved back. Now that we were free of their attentions, we made our escape, cantering away until we reached a safe distance. It was here, at the brow of the hill, that we finally stopped to look back at this spectacle, seeing that the men had now thrown themselves to their knees and were wailing like a gaggle of starving children.
‘Who, in the name of God, were they?’ said William.
‘Flagellants,’ I replied. ‘They come from Flanders, I believe.’
‘What’s the matter with them?’
‘They’re praying for forgiveness,’ I said. ‘They hope to persuade God to spare the world from plague. The more they whip themselves, the greater our chances.’ I watched as the men crawled back to their feet and rearranged themselves again into their previous formation. ‘It’s a shame they cannot see the irony in their actions,’ I added.
William cocked his head. ‘Oh yes?’
‘As they wander about England, they’re probably doing a better job at spreading plague, than preventing it.’
William regarded me solemnly for a moment, pinching his lips together, before his face softened into a smile. ‘What witless fools,’ he said, before he started to laugh. His amusement was muted at first, but soon he was leaning against his horse’s neck and guffawing until his shoulders shook and tears streamed down his face. Laughter is contagious, and it wasn’t long before I caught this infection. There is nothing funny about plague of course, and yet we had done little more than pass doleful groups of men, women and children all morning. Their misery hovering above us like a low cloud. How wonderful it felt to laugh, no matter how inappropriate.
When our amusement had finally run its course, William slapped me across the back and told me that I had a good de Lacy sense of humour. This was the first time, in my whole life, that William and I had ever shared a joke – and I enjoyed the experience. I felt, at long last, as if we were something akin to equals.
* * *
After this encounter, we decided to leave the main road and return to the forest paths, now heading in a north-west direction towards Somershill. Our horses were pleased of the shade under the trees after the open roads, and I was pleased not to be riding against a tide of people.
We continued in silence again for a while, until William suddenly spoke. ‘So, Oswald,’ he said as our horses now trudged along side by side like two elderly companions. ‘I expect you’re looking forward to seeing Somershill and your family again?’
I hadn’t been back to Somershill for over two years, and I wasn’t in the least bit excited to be returning – but I lied out of politeness. ‘Yes,’ I told William. ‘It will be good to see the place again.’
William tilted his face towards mine and gave a smile. ‘And what about your family?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Mother.’
‘And Father?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I added quickly, though, in truth, I had no particular longing to see him. My father was a man who continually found fault with the world – usually angry about something or other whenever we met. That said, whatever injustice, slur or discourtesy had most recently infuriated him, these offences usually paled into insignificance when he caught a look at me. Particularly in recent years, I seemed to anger my father just by existing.
William must have read my mind. ‘You can say what you like to me about Father, you know. There are no bonds of affection between the two of us.’
‘I thought you were on good terms?’ I said, tempted to add that I had always thought of William as Father’s favourite.
‘No, Oswald,’ replied William. ‘Our relationship has never been good.’
I went to answer, but the words stuck in my throat.
‘You’re surprised to hear this, aren’t you?’ he commented.
I nodded. ‘Yes, William. I am.’
‘Father has always been hard on me,’ he replied. ‘Very hard. But nobody ever knew.’ He kept his eyes on the road ahead, unable to look in my direction. For the first time in my life, I saw William look uncomfortable. Vulnerable even. ‘I was beaten more than you or Richard,’ he told me. ‘But it was always in the privacy of Father’s library, so that nobody would know. I am his eldest surviving son.’ William grunted a short laugh. ‘One day I will be Lord Somershill, so Father could not risk belittling me in front of the household.’
I hardly knew what to say. ‘I’m so sorry,’ was all that I could manage.