by S. D. Sykes
William released one of his hands from the reins, to run his fingers through his hair. ‘But now that Father is losing his mind, he doesn’t care who hears his scorn for me. I am mocked from one side of the house to the other.’
‘Losing his mind?’
‘Yes,’ replied William, turning his head to face mine. ‘Prepare to be shocked, Oswald. Father is not the man you met at your last visit. He repeats himself endlessly. He forgets where he’s put things. He often forgets names or places. Sometimes he becomes aggressive for no reason. Particularly with me.’
‘He’s always been a difficult man,’ I suggested. ‘Perhaps it’s just that this has worsened with age.’
William shook his head. ‘It’s been a steep decline,’ he said. ‘The role of lord is clearly vexing his temper and intellect. He’s made so many mistakes that it’s becoming embarrassing. He should pass responsibility to me, now that I’m thirty. But I’m treated no better than a servant. Allowed to follow his orders, but give none of my own.’
This conversation made me feel uncomfortable, prompting that variety of disquiet that comes from the sensation of sand shifting beneath your feet. I had always thought of Father as the obdurate but dependable rock of our family, but now it seemed I could no longer rely upon that certainty.
‘Have you tried discussing the matter with him?’ I ventured. ‘Father might agree to pass on more responsibility, if he knew how you felt?’
William sighed and kicked at his horse again. ‘Come on, Oswald. Let’s get home. Then you can see for yourself.’
* * *
We rode on for several miles, picking our way along seldom-used tracks that were edged with foxgloves – their purple spikes watching our progress like an audience of spindly onlookers. A wake of buzzards circled above our heads, piercing the still air with their plaintive calls. The air was filled with the mossy, verdant scent of the moisture that has been trapped under the canopy.
After a while, the trees thinned, and the forest gave way to fields and hedgerows, until we turned a corner to see the house of Somershill, standing proud beyond the crooked homes of the village, with its square elevations and crenellated walls. It was somewhere between a grand house and a castle. A home that could also be an intimidating fortress. But that day, as the sun caught the warm hues of the sandstone, Somershill looked welcoming, not hostile. Suddenly I felt pleased to be home.
Chapter Twenty
William and I trotted along the main street of the village of Somershill, to be greeted with a flurry of perfunctory bows and curtseys from the inhabitants, before these people immediately returned to their work. Their gestures of respect were involuntary reflexes – unthinking and instinctive reactions to a pair of noblemen riding past.
‘Look at them all,’ said William, a little disdainfully. ‘Sometimes they remind me of sheep. They barely lift their mouths from the grass.’ There was some truth to his observation, even if it were a little unkind. The people of Somershill seemed to be caught in this same trap as farmyard animals – fighting a never-ending cycle of feeding themselves and their children, with only the barest of opportunities to enjoy the thrill of living itself. It was a sobering thought, and reminded me to be pleased of my own wealth and position. I, at least, had the time to stare at the sky and listen to the birds.
Once we had reached the end of this short street, and had been greeted by each and every one of the residents, I realised that I’d seen none of the panic about plague that we’d witnessed on our journey. There were no carts being packed with pots and pans, nor animals and children being rounded up. There were no prayers being chanted, nor naked flesh being flogged. I might have mentioned this to William, but his good humour had dissipated the moment we entered the village, and he seemed determined to ride along this street with an ugly scowl upon his face.
* * *
We arrived at the house via the south-east gate, crossing the ditch that had once formed part of a moat, before heading for the stables. There was a strong smell in the air that day, as the warm weather had heated the foul contents of this ditch into a stinking miasma. After many years of neglect, the Somershill moat was now little more than a latrine, into which the servants threw all of the household waste and ordure.
I must have pulled a face at the smell, since William turned to me and smiled. ‘Had you forgotten the delights of our moat, then?’ he asked me.
‘I’m used to the latrines at the monastery,’ I replied. ‘We use running water.’
‘Father would never agree to the expense,’ said William, as he dismounted from his horse. ‘But we could easily dig some proper pits and cover the shit with some soil,’ he added, passing the reins to the waiting groom. ‘I have suggested this many times. But Father is happy to live in this stink, so what can we do?’ William held out his hand to help me dismount. ‘But don’t worry, Oswald,’ he said, leaning over to whisper into my ear. ‘It’s the first thing I’ll sort out.’
I followed William towards the Great Hall, where he chose to enter the house via the main doors, rather than walking around to the back porch near the kitchens. This door, a colossal creation of oak panels with long iron hinge plates, was stiff and needed to be kicked open. It was an unnecessary way to announce our return, especially as we lacked an audience. The hall itself was empty, apart from a pair of servant girls who didn’t bother to look up from their work as we entered – preferring to concentrate on scrubbing down the long table that reached across the dais. They continued to ignore us, as we crossed the floor, passed the smoking embers of the central fire, and then climbed the spiral stairs to the solar, where we found the family at last.
* * *
My brother Richard and my sister Clemence were sitting at the table, playing at Nine Men’s Morris, and barely looked up from the board as we stepped in. Father was asleep in a chair and Mother was sitting beside the fire, fiddling with some embroidery. She dropped this cloth to the floor and came over to embrace me immediately, though she was quick to find fault with my complexion, my weight and my posture. Once I had been welcomed with a quick appraisal of all my physical shortcomings, she then disappeared to the kitchen to order a soup that was certain to cure all of my many deficiencies and imbalances.
Father opened his eyes and took a moment to revive, before he addressed William. ‘You took your time, then,’ he said, without bothering to acknowledge me.
William wandered over to the window seat and threw himself down on the cushions, crossing his arms and leaving his legs to sprawl across the room. He looked ready to sleep himself. ‘It’s a long way to Kintham Abbey, Father,’ he said. ‘And we had to avoid the main road for most of the journey. It was full with travellers.’
‘Travellers,’ said my sister Clemence, with her eyebrow arched. ‘Where would people be travelling? There are no feast days until midsummer.’
William grunted a laugh. ‘So you haven’t heard about the plague, then?’ he said mockingly.
Clemence pulled a sour face. ‘Of course I know of plague,’ she replied, placing a piece onto the board. ‘I’m just surprised to hear that the sufferers are tramping around England with this affliction, that’s all.’
‘They don’t have plague, Clemence,’ retorted William with a groan, as if he were speaking to the village fool. ‘They are fleeing it. Most of them are coming south from Southwark or Bromley.’
Clemence waited for Richard to place his piece and then made her own move. ‘Well, I don’t want them coming here,’ she said, turning to address Father. ‘We should close off the gates to the village, and stop anybody from arriving or leaving.’
‘Nonsense. We’ll do no such thing,’ said Father, before rising to his feet and circling me, as if he were putting a price on my head at market. ‘We just need to get on with our lives as usual,’ he said. ‘There are too many exaggerated tales about this illness. And I don’t believe a word of them. Not a word.’
‘Then why was I called home, Father?’ I asked, deciding to speak at l
ast.
‘I have no idea,’ he replied.
William rolled his eyes, before sitting up to catch Father’s attention. ‘You insisted I go to Kintham to fetch Oswald, Father. Remember? It was your express instruction. You were afraid that Oswald would die of plague if we left him there.’
Father shook his head at this, though without complete conviction, and I saw some of the contrariness that William had described to me earlier. His face was suddenly clouded with confusion, before he wrinkled his nose and shook his head, as if forcing himself to concentrate.
‘These people should be on their home estates, working in the fields,’ he announced. ‘Not marching about the high roads of England. What will become of our farms if this is allowed to continue?’ He gave a deep snort of discontent. ‘No lord would allow his villagers to leave their land at this time of year. Particularly not in June.’
‘Then perhaps their lords are dead?’ said William, turning to look out the window.
Father bristled at this. ‘Nonsense. The Pestilence only attacks the poor and weak.’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ I said, speaking out again and not considering the consequences of openly disagreeing with Father.
‘Oh yes?’ he said, turning on me. ‘I hear only of peasants dying. Thanks to their foul practices.’
I was tempted to say something about the rotting food and shit that was festering in the ditches of this very house, but I held my tongue on this topic. William looked at me and smiled, knowing exactly what I was thinking.
‘Many monks have died at Winchester,’ I said instead. ‘Their practices are not foul.’
‘Pah,’ said Father. ‘Monks, indeed. Nothing but scroungers. I’m talking about men and women of nobility. We have nothing to fear from this plague. Nothing at all.’
William quickly sat up and glared at me, urging me not to say anything else, but I felt riled. ‘What about Joan of England?’ I said. ‘She died of plague. And she was the daughter of King Edward himself. You couldn’t be any nobler.’
Father’s eyes narrowed. ‘But Joan was in France when she died. It is no wonder that she perished,’ he added, balling his hands into fists. ‘I am astounded that our king tried to marry his own kin into such people. What was he thinking?’
‘Joan was only travelling through France,’ I replied. ‘She was due to marry Peter of Castile. He is Spanish, I believe.’
It was Clemence’s turn to flash her eyes at me. A warning to stop antagonising the old man.
‘I see that you are still a pedant, Oswald,’ said Father, relaxing his fists and shaking his head. ‘I see that the Benedictines of Kintham have not succeeded in teaching you any humility?’ He paused to purse his lips. ‘Well. Welcome home to you. May your stay here be short.’ He paused. ‘For all of our sakes.’
Following this he tapped Richard on the shoulder, informing my brother that they had some matters to attend to on the farm. Richard had remained silent during this whole conversation – which was his usual tactic for dealing with family politics. Say nothing and hope to avoid attention. Now that Richard had been noticed by Father, he stood without the merest modicum of enthusiasm. But then again, my brother preferred to spend his days hunting in the forest, rather than helping Father on the farm. I noted Richard was already wearing his leather boots and green tunic – ready to leave with his hounds at a moment’s notice. He even picked up his hunting hat as he left the solar – a bycocket decorated with an array of embroidered peacock feathers. I could only hope, for Richard’s sake, that this supposed farming chore was just an excuse for Father to leave. My brother would have been hopelessly overdressed for a visit to the pig sties or the cattle sheds.
Once the pair had headed off down the stairs, Father negotiating each step down to the Great Hall as if it were made of ice, Clemence turned to me and laughed wryly. ‘You will regret infuriating Father, Oswald,’ she told me, as she carefully replaced the pieces from the game into a small leather bag. ‘He never forgets a slight.’
‘What do you mean, Clemence?’ said William. ‘The man’s memory is rusting over. He’ll have forgotten this whole conversation by this evening.’
Clemence rose to her feet. ‘Father is not as forgetful as you may think, William,’ she said. ‘Nor, indeed, as you would like him to be.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ snapped William.
‘It means that Father is still the lord of this estate,’ she said. ‘Not you.’ She then swept out of the room, following Father and Richard to the Great Hall, and prompting William to turn to me and smile.
‘So, Oswald,’ he said with a glint of mischief in his eye. ‘Welcome back to Somershill.’
Chapter Twenty-one
I spent the following three days either avoiding my father, or trying my very best not to annoy him whenever we did meet. A few times I thought about returning to Kintham, since Father had clearly forgotten his desire to have me at Somershill – but when I mentioned this idea to William, my brother soundly warned me against leaving. Plague was now rumoured to be present in the lands between Somershill and Kintham, and it would be too dangerous for me to make this journey.
In some ways I was heartened by William’s concern, but then again, this thoughtfulness only made me feel worse about Agnes. Sooner or later, I would have to confess to my part in his daughter’s death – as unpleasant a task as this promised to be. I still felt that this conversation would be easier to conduct once I could soften the blow with news of Sawyer’s arrest. The trouble was, I had yet to hear from Brother Peter, though he had solemnly promised to write to me. I had waited for three days already, and heard nothing from the man.
* * *
In the meantime, I distracted myself by wandering my old childhood haunts – climbing the remains of the curtain wall to look at the mantle of forest on the distant hills, or sitting in the cellars, behind the barrels of pickles and sacks of salt. This was a favourite hiding spot, though I was always forced to move on when the steward of Somershill appeared. Gilbert was never pleased to see me at the best of times – but if he found me in the cellars, then I was shooed away like a wandering chicken.
On the morning of my fourth day at Somershill, I decided to visit the family chapel, opening the door to this small stone building, only to find Gilbert coming in the opposite direction. The old man looked sheepish, as he was holding a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese covered in a bloom of woolly mould.
‘Good morning,’ I said, before pointing at the bread and cheese. ‘What are you doing with those?’
‘I found them in here, Master Oswald,’ he said. ‘They were hidden and then forgotten.’
The loaf of bread was large. The piece of cheese generous – strange items for a person to hide and forget about. ‘Who’s been doing that?’ I said.
He looked over my shoulder to see if anybody was nearby. ‘I’m not sure I should say.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked. ‘Has somebody been stealing food from the kitchen?’
His eye twitched. ‘There are no thieves here,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t go round spreading rumours like that.’
‘Then what is this food doing in the chapel?’ I said, offended at his tone.
Gilbert bowed his head to me, as if apologising for his previous rudeness. ‘I think it’s your father,’ he said with an awkward smile. ‘I’ve seen him doing it.’
‘Why would Father be hiding food in the chapel? He can eat whenever he wants.’ Gilbert’s story sounded fanciful, and yet I knew that this man was not the imaginative type.
‘I’m not telling lies,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen him doing it. Creeping out here at dawn with a bag of food. He doesn’t know that I can see him. But I can.’
‘Have you asked Father why he’s hiding the food?’
Gilbert shook his head. ‘No, Master Oswald. I haven’t. I just look around the chapel each time he’s been here. To see what I can find.’ He presented me with the mouldy bread and cheese. ‘Must have missed these two
.’ He paused and then looked up at me with wary eyes. ‘Perhaps you could ask him what he’s doing?’ he suggested. ‘Seeing as you’re his son.’
I made a weak gesture that was somewhere between a shrug and a nod. ‘Yes. Well, perhaps,’ I said, before clearing my throat with more certainty. ‘Though I’m sure there’s a very reasonable explanation for all this. I expect that Father is leaving the food for somebody.’
Gilbert frowned. ‘Except that nobody ever comes to fetch it.’
‘Well, I’ll ask him if the chance arises,’ I said.
‘Up to you,’ he replied. ‘But it would be good to know what ails your father. I haven’t seen this sort of thing since your grandmother Alice was alive.’
‘She hid food as well?’ I asked. Alice de Lacy had died when I was very young, so I had no memory of the woman – other than the stories I had heard from Mother. None of which were complimentary, given that she had been my father’s mother.
‘Oh yes,’ said Gilbert. ‘All the time.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘Thought we were trying to poison her. Wouldn’t eat a thing we served.’
‘You think my father is suffering from the same affliction?’ I asked.
Gilbert paused. Clearly the idea had crossed his mind. ‘Well, I wouldn’t like to say,’ he answered. ‘But it might help if somebody were to talk to him about it?’ He raised a bushy eyebrow and stared at me, and for a moment, I felt as if this commitment were about to trip rashly off my tongue. But I stopped the impulse just in time. Was I about to ask my proud, volatile father – a man who already disliked me – if he were hiding food in the chapel, because he was under the delusion that somebody was trying to poison him? No. I was not. I would leave that conversation to William.
‘Just keep this to yourself, please,’ I snapped. ‘My father’s reasons are his own business.’
* * *