by S. D. Sykes
I searched out William straight away, thinking he might be in the solar, only to be told he was working on some manorial ledgers in Father’s library. I descended the stairs again and headed across the Great Hall, ready to knock at the library door, when I heard raised voices coming from within the room. One belonged to Father. The other to William. I looked about the hall to make sure that nobody else was around, and then I put my ear to the door. The pair were arguing about a tenant who had failed to discharge his contractual duties on the demesne. Father wanted to evict the man, whereas William was suggesting a fine instead.
‘It is not for you to decide,’ said Father. His booming voice travelled easily through the wooden panels of the door. William’s voice was harder to hear, unless I pressed my ear to the door jamb.
‘You cannot ignore this man’s failure to cut his hedges for months,’ said William, ‘and then suddenly evict him.’
‘I’ll do what I want,’ said Father.
‘Yes, but perhaps you should listen to me, Father?’ said William. ‘I have agreed a suitable settlement with the man. He will cut the hedges immediately, and then he will work for three extra days on the demesne fields at harvest time. Not only that. He’ll pay an extra five shillings for his rent this year. I think we should be satisfied with this outcome.’
‘Well, I’m not in the least bit satisfied,’ said Father. ‘The churl has disobeyed the terms of his tenancy.’
‘Accept the offer, Father,’ said William. ‘You’ll get more work out of this man. And more money.’
Father laughed. ‘You really have been gulled, William. Haven’t you? Five shillings isn’t nearly enough. When will you grow a spine and stand up to these people? How on earth do you expect to be their lord when I’m gone? They’ll trample all over you.’
A short sequence followed that I couldn’t hear, before William’s voice cut through again. He sounded exasperated. ‘Listen to me, Father. Who will take on the tenancy if you throw this man and his family from the land?’
‘It is good land,’ argued Father. ‘With dew ponds and woods. Plenty of tenants will be interested to take over.’
‘No,’ replied William. ‘They won’t. You’re wrong about that.’
I drew back from the door as I suddenly sensed the presence of somebody behind me. I looked around to see it was my brother Richard, standing in the shadows and watching me. He held a pair of dead hares by their legs, their fur stained with blood. Our eyes met for a moment and I think it crossed his mind to ask me what I was doing, before he carried on towards the kitchen, deciding, as ever, to mind his own business.
I turned my own attentions back to the library, where William was now speaking again. ‘Nobody will want that land, Father. Not when the Plague has passed. We both know how many men will die in the coming months. After that, the survivors will be able to pick and choose their plots. We’ll be left with empty lands and even less income.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Father. ‘All this talk of plague is nonsense. We haven’t seen a single death on our estate. It’s just fear-mongering from London. You shouldn’t listen to a word of it.’
‘But the deaths will come, Father,’ said William. ‘Don’t you worry. The Plague will not pass Somershill by.’
Another passage of mumbled conversation followed, which ended when Father roared, ‘You listen to me. I am Lord Somershill. Not you! And I say they are evicted. Now get out of here, and stop sticking your nose into my business.’
There were heavy footsteps across the floor, before William flung the door open and marched out, failing to notice that I was standing with my back against the wall. I stepped forward when my brother had passed out of sight, then looked through the open door into the library, where Father stared back at me with a vacant expression. For a moment, I don’t think he recognised my face.
His eyes focused. ‘What do you want?’ he said aggressively.
I bowed my head and stepped away from the door. ‘Sorry, Father,’ I said. ‘I was just passing by.’
‘Well, go and pass by somewhere else,’ he shouted. ‘Your face gives me indigestion.’ With this, he suddenly stood up from his desk, stumbled out of the library, before heading across the Great Hall towards the large entrance doors. Once there, he stopped and pressed his nose against the iron banding of the door and stood perfectly still, as if he had turned to stone.
I approached with caution. ‘Can I help you, Father?’ I asked softly.
He turned on me as if I had tried to burn him with a poker. ‘Get away from me… um, um…’ he said, as he tried desperately to remember my name. ‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Where are you going, Father?’ I asked.
‘To the kitchen, of course,’ he answered. ‘What do you think I’m doing? I want some ale.’
I tapped his arm gently. ‘The kitchens are over there,’ I said, pointing across the hall to an exit on the other side of the room.
Father frowned, until he shook the muddled look away. ‘I knew that,’ he snapped. ‘I was just checking that this door was locked.’
I tried a reassuring smile. ‘Of course, Father,’ I said, not wanting to belittle him any further. ‘That’s a good idea.’
He wasn’t pleased by this small kindness. In fact, my words only succeeded in riling him. ‘Stop idling around here, Oswald,’ he said. ‘You’re always under my feet. Haven’t you got any work to do?’
Before I could answer he spun on his heel and headed for the kitchens. I didn’t try to follow.
Chapter Twenty-two
I had my chance to speak to William about Father that night – once the candle in our room had burnt out and the sounds of the castle had settled to the occasional creak. I was sleeping in the small room that my eldest brother normally shared with his wife and two young daughters, but they had been relocated to my mother’s bed chamber during my stay. I had offered, repeatedly, to sleep on the floor of the solar, but Father insisted that I should be accommodated in William’s room, and he would hear no objections. Needless to say, I was not spared the complaints of William’s wife – a torrent of barbed comments about uncomfortable beds and Mother’s snoring, but William himself had no objections to the arrangement. He told me that he was secretly pleased to have a few nights away from the woman, since she was forever getting up to use the piss pot in the middle of the night. I gathered that theirs was not a happy marriage – though I didn’t pry. They could barely stand to look at one another, let alone have a cordial conversation.
William was restless that particular night, turning over repeatedly in bed, so I knew that he was still awake. The canopy was not drawn about his bedstead, as the day had been warm and the room was stuffy. I was sleeping in a truckle bed – a piece of furniture that had been built for a child, and didn’t accommodate my long limbs. That said, it was better than sleeping on a straw mattress in the solar.
I cleared my throat. ‘William,’ I whispered through the darkness.
‘What is it?’ he asked, his voice drowsy. ‘You’re not going to force me to say some prayers, are you?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Don’t worry on that account.’ I paused. ‘I just wanted to talk to you about Father,’ I hesitated. ‘You’re right. He isn’t well.’
I could hear William sit up a little, though he didn’t answer me.
‘Father couldn’t remember my name today,’ I continued. ‘And he didn’t know how to find the kitchens.’ I paused. ‘And then I discovered that he’s been hiding food in the chapel. He seems to think that somebody’s trying to poison him.’
William smirked. ‘There’s an idea.’ When I didn’t laugh in response, he continued. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. Sometimes humour helps me to cope with Father’s contrariness, but it’s not funny. I agree.’ He paused. ‘At least you know the truth now.’
‘I overheard you arguing with Father today,’ I said. ‘About evicting a tenant.’
‘When was that?’ His tone was suddenly guarded.
‘In
the library.’
‘So you were listening at the door, were you?’
‘I was looking for you,’ I said quickly. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.’
William lay back in his bed, causing the slats to creak and groan like the frame of an old ship. ‘Then you understand what I’m fighting against. The more I offer to help Father, the more he rejects me. The man just won’t listen.’
‘What about Richard?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps he could persuade Father to relinquish some of his responsibilities? They seem close,’ I said, remembering Father’s invitation to Richard on my arrival day.
‘He’s of no help,’ sighed William. ‘Richard is a coward. He won’t acknowledge Father’s problems because it might affect his own purse.’ He gave a snort. ‘What does Richard care about Somershill, or the condition of Father’s mind? He only wants to ride about the forest, catching herons or digging out badgers.’
‘And what about Mother?’ I asked. ‘Surely she’s noticed Father’s affliction?’
The snort came again. This time with even greater disdain. ‘She doesn’t believe that there’s anything wrong with Father. Can you believe that? Every time that I discuss the matter with her, she either shouts me down or quickly changes the subject.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘Father is clearly losing his mind, and yet nobody will admit to this problem, let alone talk about it.’
‘Well I know it’s true,’ I replied. ‘I’ve seen it for myself. There is a great change in Father’s disposition since I last saw him.’
William paused for a moment and then reached down from his bed to touch my shoulder. ‘Thank you, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Your support means a lot to me. At last. A de Lacy who will face up to the truth.’
An idea suddenly came to me. Was this the right time to speak to William about Agnes? My brother had certainly softened towards me over the last few days. You might even say that we had formed the first bonds of friendship. Not only that, he had just thanked me and complimented my judgment. It would be easy to now tell my story, even if I wasn’t able to mention Sawyer’s arrest. The room was dark and I couldn’t see William’s face. This environment had all the warm and reassuring intimacy of a confessional. This could only help my cause. And yet…
And yet the words were still so hard to find. I wanted to lie back down in my own bed and leave this awkward conversation for another day. I convinced myself that this was the right decision, and yet…
And yet, if not now – then when? Was my decision to wait for news from Brother Peter just an excuse to delay the inevitable? In the darkness, I could hear William’s shallow, rhythmic breathing as he started to drift back into sleep. Soon he would be snoring and this moment would be gone.
‘William,’ I whispered into the black.
‘Yes. What is it now?’
‘There’s something else that I wanted to tell you.’
I could hear him rustling with the sheets. ‘Oh yes.’
A silence followed, as I tried to think of the best way to tell this story. Should I start by telling William that he had a daughter with Beatrice Wheeler, before I admitted that I’d caused her death? Or should I start with the death, and then reveal the girl’s parentage? There was hardly an easy way, and the more I thought about it, the more tongue-tied I became.
‘What is it, Oswald?’ said William, now fully awake and becoming mildly irritated. ‘Come on. Out with it.’
I closed my eyelids and tried to concentrate. In my mind’s eye, I could see Agnes wading into the swollen waters of the river. I called out desperately, warning her not to tread out any further, but she didn’t listen to me. Instead, she let the river consume her, until her face was fully covered, with only her long hair visible as it fanned out in a delicate halo on the surface.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked William, his tone now one of concern.
I snapped out of my reverie. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling my heart racing. ‘It’s… difficult.’
William reached a hand to my shoulder again. ‘Then it’s better said quickly.’
‘It’s just that…’
‘It’s just that what?’
I hesitated again, regretting having started this conversation. Now I had to say something.
‘Come on, Oswald,’ urged William. ‘If something’s troubling you, then you must tell me.’
I took a deep breath. I meant to tell William about Agnes. I really did, and yet it was a completely different story that fell from my lips. ‘I don’t want to stay at the monastery,’ I blurted out. ‘I don’t want to be a monk.’
There was a long pause. ‘Well, I don’t think any man wants to be a monk, do they, Oswald?’ he said at length. ‘Not really. All that praying and fasting. Not to mention the celibacy. Who wants to live without a woman?’
‘But some men are called to God’s service,’ I said. ‘They choose willingly to devote their lives to the church.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But I don’t feel that way, William.’ I cleared my throat to drown out a pesky sob. ‘I don’t think that I can take my vows.’
William sat up in bed. ‘So, what’s the problem, then, Little Brother? Is it the praying and fasting?’ He paused. ‘Or is it the celibacy?’ When I didn’t answer, he started to laugh again. ‘By the saints. It is the celibacy, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. Too quickly.
He didn’t believe me. ‘Have you met a girl in Stonebrook who takes your fancy, then?’ he asked. ‘Is that the problem?’
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
He leant out over the bed, so that I could see the outline of his head through the gloom. ‘Who is she?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, wafting my night shirt. My tenseness was generating an additional level of heat, over and above the mounting stuffiness of the room.
‘So she does exist, then,’ said William. ‘I knew it!’ He paused before dropping his voice. ‘You know that many monks have mistresses, don’t you, Oswald? Why not bed this girl anyway? Nobody would blink an eye.’
‘She’s not a girl.’
‘Oh.’ He said, starting to laugh again. ‘It’s a boy, then? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘No, no,’ I answered, as the sweat started to run down my forehead in rivulets. ‘I meant that she’s a woman.’
‘So she’s older than you?’ he said, now laughing even louder. ‘Ha! You do like to make things hard for yourself, don’t you, Oswald? It might be simpler to find a younger girl to begin with. They’re more easily impressed.’
‘I don’t want to find a younger girl,’ I retorted, now annoyed that I’d opened myself up to ridicule. ‘Please. Let’s not talk about this any more.’
William fell back against his pillow, and there was a moment of silence before he gave a great, resounding guffaw. It sounded so odd and dislocated in the darkness. ‘By the saints,’ he said. ‘I know who you’re in love with. It’s Maud Woodstock, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ I said, far too defensively.
He sat back in his bed. ‘It is Maud Woodstock, isn’t it? God’s bones. Not you as well?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You know that Richard was infatuated with that woman for many years?’
My nightshirt was now sticking to my skin and I felt nauseated. ‘No. I didn’t know that,’ I mumbled.
‘Richard used to mope about the house, writing her love letters… until Father put a stop to it.’ He laughed again. ‘At least Father had his wits about him in those days,’ he said. ‘Because you know what they call Maud Woodstock, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Widow Woodstock.’
‘How can Maud be a widow?’ I replied. ‘She’s never been married.’
‘Exactly, Oswald,’ he said. ‘And do you know why?’
‘No.’
‘Every man who was ever betrothed to that woman, ended up dead before the wedding day. Three times she was due to marry.
Three times the fellow died.’
‘How did they die?’
‘I don’t know,’ he huffed. ‘The Flux or an ague. Something like that. The villagers say she’s cursed.’
‘That’s just a stupid story,’ I said, now understanding Maud’s sensitivity on that particular subject. ‘Curses are nonsense.’
‘Believe what you like,’ said William. ‘But no man will touch her now, Oswald. So I’d keep clear of her if I were you.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Because if you manage to get yourself out of Kintham, then she’ll try to take you for a husband in a flash.’
‘Maud doesn’t want to marry,’ I protested. ‘She’s content looking after her father and running their farm.’
‘Of course she wants to marry, Oswald,’ said William. ‘Every woman needs a husband in the end.’
A silence followed, while I felt thoroughly frustrated with myself. I had said too much and too little. William now knew about Maud and my desire to leave the monastery, and yet I had failed to say a word about Agnes. ‘Don’t mention this to anyone, William,’ I begged. ‘Please.’
I expected my brother to laugh, or continue to tease me, but he didn’t. ‘I can speak to Father, if you like?’ he said, his voice suddenly softer and more understanding. ‘About taking your vows, that is. Don’t worry, I won’t mention the widow Woodstock.’ He paused and then heaved a long sigh. ‘I’m not sure that Father will listen to me, Oswald,’ he said. ‘But there might be some other option than the church for you.’
‘Such as?’
He paused again. ‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly.
‘No,’ I said despondently, laying my head back down on the pillow. ‘Neither do I.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Somershill, November 1370
Mother caught hold of my hand and grasped it tightly. ‘I always thought you wanted to be a monk, Oswald,’ she said. ‘I always thought that we’d dragged you away from that monastery.’
I had to think carefully before answering. When the topic of my years at Kintham came up – as sometimes happened when I was talking to my circle of friends and acquaintances, I usually told the story about having once been a committed novice, happy at the thought of taking my vows at the age of eighteen and then becoming a monk for the rest of my life. It was only the sudden death of my father and older brothers that had changed this destiny. In fact, I’d told this story so often that I had started to believe it myself. In many ways I had clung to this fabricated reality, because it was such a straightforward tale, which usually satisfied the other party and was rarely followed up with any more questions. But my mother was dying, so what was the point of telling it again?