by S. D. Sykes
‘No, Mother,’ I said. ‘I never liked the monastery. I never wanted to be a monk.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true.’
‘It is completely true.’
My certainty on this topic had angered her, so she found another part of my story to attack. ‘You know that there was nothing wrong with your father,’ she said. ‘I disagree entirely with your version of events, Oswald. You make him sound like a lunatic with all these stories about hiding food and forgetting names.’
‘His mind was unsound towards the end of his life,’ I said. ‘You must agree with that.’
She waved a pale hand at me. ‘No, no, I don’t agree at all. It’s very disrespectful to malign the dead in such a way. Particularly when they cannot answer for themselves. I hope you will not take such liberties with my character, when I am finally gone? I would like my successors to know the truth about me.’
I bowed my head. ‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ I said. ‘Rest assured. Your true character will be known to all future generations. I will make sure of that myself.’
She threw me a sideways glance, unsure how to read this promise, before deciding to take it as a compliment. ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said. ‘But keep to your word, Oswald.’ She raised an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘Or I will haunt you.’ She withdrew a bony finger from beneath the sheets and waved it at me. ‘I will rise from my grave and punish you for any untruths.’
This might have been a sobering thought. The idea that I would never escape her attentions, even after her death. It was lucky then that I had not the slightest belief in the afterlife. ‘Would you like me to continue?’ I asked.
She poked the hand back under the sheet and closed her eyes. ‘No. Come back later,’ she whispered. ‘I need to sleep now.’
I crept from the room, looking back to see her body – lying on its back beneath a linen sheet. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was hanging open. In this pose, my mother looked every bit like a stone gisant, recumbent upon the top of her own tomb.
Her life was numbered now in days. The maid told me that she rarely ate a meal, other than a thin broth. Her urine was dark brown and her stools were small and hard, like rabbit’s droppings. Sometimes she was so delirious with pain that she had to be given a draught of dwale to induce sleep. A potent mixture of vinegar, henbane, poppy seeds and hemlock – a concoction that was strong enough to kill a person with a weaker constitution. But not my mother. Somehow she still found the energy to continue.
* * *
I left the room and wandered down the stairs towards the Great Hall, finding that the main door was wide open to the elements. An icy wind was blowing in across the hall, so I strode over to close the doors, only to find that a party had gathered on the lawns outside to bid Sir John farewell. Seeing this, I cursed myself for bothering about the door, as I was now forced to witness this awkward parting. Seeing Sir John’s glum face made me feel guilty about my fit of jealousy, but I had no choice but to shake his hand and wish him a safe journey.
Filomena glowered at me. ‘I hope you’re happy now,’ she said, as Sir John plodded away into the distance, cutting a rather pathetic figure against the horizon. His horse was an aged, piebald palfrey, and the leather of his saddle was scuffed and worn. Sir John might have travelled the world collecting stories, but he had not succeeded in accumulating any wealth. Wearing a dirty riding mantle and perched between two saddlebags stuffed with clothes, he looked like a peddler heading off for market with the entirety of his stock hanging from the saddle.
‘Sir John wanted to see his family in Sheppey,’ I said. ‘I think he was pleased to get away.’
Filomena sighed at this remark. ‘The winter here will be so dull now,’ she lamented.
‘You have me,’ I suggested.
She huffed at this. ‘You spend the whole day in the room of a dying woman. And I only have the company of your sister Clemence and her fainthearted son.’
‘Henry’s not fainthearted,’ I said in the boy’s defence, aware that he was hanging around in the near distance and trying to listen to our conversation. ‘He is just quiet, that’s all.’
‘Then why doesn’t he stand up to his mother?’ she asked. ‘Clemence constantly scolds the boy. I wonder that he can stand it.’ She added a disdainful laugh. ‘You de Lacy men and your mothers,’ she said. ‘You are ruled by them.’
‘There’s no need for such insults,’ I replied.
‘I think there is,’ she said. ‘Your mother invents a story about me and Sir John and you believe her.’
‘Sir John’s departure has nothing to do with Mother,’ I lied.
‘Of course it does,’ she said, her beautiful face now red with fury. ‘You would prefer to believe her story, rather than mine. Your own wife. If there is anybody throwing insults here, then it is you.’ She pointed into the distance, where Sir John continued to slowly plod away on his horse, looking back occasionally as if he might suddenly be called back. ‘But it is not bad enough that I am insulted. You then punish an innocent man,’ she said. ‘You invite Sir John to stay for the season, and then you change your mind.’ She pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘You have played with him, Oswald. And it’s not fair.’
I saw a tear in Filomena’s eye, and I suddenly felt very irritated. ‘Don’t tell me that you feel sorry for him?’ I said.
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied. ‘Sir John wasn’t ready to leave. You forced him out.’
I grasped Filomena’s wrist. ‘Are you in love with him?’ I said, squeezing tightly. ‘Is that it?’
She wriggled her wrist, trying to free herself. ‘Get off me, Oswald.’
I don’t know what came over me, because I squeezed a little harder. ‘I said, Are you in love with him?’
‘No!’
I released her wrist and stormed back towards the house, diving in through the main door and then falling against a wall to catch my breath. The anger quickly abated and then I felt sick and thoroughly ashamed of myself. I had never succumbed to such jealousy in the past, even though I was married to one of the most beautiful women in Kent. I had certainly never man handled her in such a disgraceful way. I looked up as footsteps approached, hoping that Filomena had followed me inside. Unfortunately it was Clemence. It seemed that she had witnessed my altercation with Filomena.
‘What’s going on, Oswald?’ she said. ‘What a show to put on in front of the household.’
‘It’s none of your business, Clemence,’ I said, running my fingers through my hair and trying to speak calmly.
‘You should pay more attention to your wife,’ she said. ‘No wonder she is feeling aggrieved.’
‘Please don’t get involved,’ I said, trying to pass her.
Clemence blocked my path – the flowing skirts of her black gown giving an added width. ‘You spend too long with Mother,’ she said. ‘When you should devote more time to your wife.’
‘Mother is dying,’ I said. ‘I need to be with her.’
‘But what on earth are you doing in there all the time?’ she replied. ‘Reading Mother the Old Testament?’
‘Just let me pass,’ I replied, making a second attempt to circumvent my sister.
‘Are you making a confession,’ she asked, putting her hand out to grasp my arm this time.
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Mother told me that you’re feeling guilty about something.’
I could feel my stomach instantly turn. ‘What’s she been saying to you?’ I demanded to know.
Clemence’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s going on, Oswald?’ she asked. ‘Why are you being so defensive?’
‘I’m not being defensive,’ I snapped. ‘I am simply spending time with my mother before she dies. I can’t see why that offends you or Filomena.’ I then stalked away before Clemence could ask another question.
* * *
That evening, I returned to Mother’s bedside once she had eaten a boiled egg and a slice of baked quince. Apparent
ly it was what she fancied, and now that we had dispensed with Crouch’s services she could eat what she liked. This strange meal had revived her sufficiently for me to feel able to ask my questions.
‘Have you told Clemence about the letter?’ I asked, taking a seat beside her bed.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It was something she said.’
‘Your sister comes in here sometimes, Oswald,’ she said. ‘Trying to find out what we’re talking about. Asking lots of questions.’ A mischievous smile crept across her face. ‘Of course, I don’t tell her anything. But it doesn’t stop her from asking. You know how inquisitive she is.’ I could tell that Mother was enjoying this power over my sister – the opportunity to dangle and then withhold information.
‘This story is for your ears only,’ I said. When she puffed her lips noncommittally, I added, ‘Please don’t tell Clemence, Mother. This is between you and me. If I cannot trust you, then I cannot continue.’
She squeezed her face into a frown. ‘Very well, very well,’ she conceded. ‘I won’t say anything to Clemence, but…’ She tapped her chest, her fingers drumming lightly on the linen of her chemise – the thin layer of cloth that was the only thing between me and the letter. ‘Just remember. I haven’t heard the whole story yet.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Kent, June 1349
By my fifth day at Somershill, I’d taken to hiding out at the top of the north-west tower – a part of Somershill that had survived from the original Norman castle built by my ancestors. My grandfather had demolished most of that ancient building to make way for his new house. But, for whatever reason, he had left this tower and section of wall for posterity. Perhaps he had run out of money, or perhaps these ruined ramparts were more than that – serving as a reminder, lest we ever forget our true history. The de Lacys now spoke English to one another. I had even been given an English name, but there had been a time when we had needed these thick walls to protect ourselves from the English. Once upon a time the de Lacys had been French.
I had this tower to myself that day, since nobody else in the household had the time to climb the steps to admire the patchwork of fields and woodland about the village, or to wonder at the misty blue hills of the Weald in the far distance. They were all far too busy. Despite Father’s protestations that Somershill and the de Lacys were immune to the Pestilence, there was an unease taking hold. The servants were constantly whispering in corners about a suspicious death in a nearby village. Some said it was nothing more than an ague. Others were convinced it was plague. In any case, the green shoots of a panic had caused an upsurge of activity in the kitchen. The pigs were slaughtered earlier in the season than usual, and a great number of eels were pulled from the stew pond to be smoked. Extra sacks of wheat were delivered alongside spare barrels of ale and bottles of wine. Even if my father didn’t believe in plague, it was clear that the servants of Somershill were preparing for the worst.
I stared down as another cart arrived in the courtyard below, before I turned my eyes towards the road, where I saw my brother Richard riding out towards the forest, followed by his two hunting hounds. He seemed a strangely ephemeral figure, riding off into the distance to enjoy his pastime, while the rest of the household ran about in agitation. It struck me that Richard and I were rather alike in this quality. We were the flotsam and jetsam of the de Lacy family – drifting along without any purpose unless William died.
I followed Richard’s progress until he disappeared into the trees and then looked back to the road. From this vantage point I would catch first sight of any messengers who might arrive from the direction of Kintham. After five days of silence from Brother Peter, I was starting to wonder if the man would ever bother to write to me? Had he even gone in search of Sawyer, as he had promised?
I kept a look out, but there was nobody on the road, so I eventually allowed my mind to wander onto different paths. As I stared into the distance, I began to daydream, imagining that William had spoken to Father about my career at the monastery, just as he had promised at our nocturnal heart-to-heart. In an extraordinary turn of the Fates, Father had then agreed that I could leave Kintham and didn’t need to take my vows. He had even awarded me a small stipend for fulfilling some role or other about the estate. (The nature of this role was unclear, since my daydream didn’t bother with such practicalities.) Not that this lack of income had particularly mattered to me, since I had then married Maud Woodstock, whose own wealth was large enough to support the pair of us. In this imagined union, I was enjoying Maud’s company, money and bed, whilst she was enjoying her new status as a minor noblewoman – a leap in rank to which she clearly aspired, given her manners, education and tastes. Father might have previously warned Richard away from such a liaison, on the grounds that Maud Woodstock was only the daughter of a yeoman farmer, but he hadn’t minded this union in my case, since I was his third and least important son.
I smiled at this thought for a while, even though it was pure fantasy. A youthful delusion. But, on the other hand, there was always the chance that this dream could become a reality? If I could gain William’s support, then anything was possible – particularly if my brother should become Lord Somershill in the next few months, once it was generally accepted that Father wasn’t well. My heart flew for a moment, before it sank like a drop weight. How could I hope to win William over, when I had yet to tell him about Agnes?
* * *
I was lost in these thoughts, when William himself appeared at the top of the steps.
‘So this is where you are,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead after the exertion of the steep ascent. It was another uncomfortably humid day – the air still heavy with the early-summer moisture before the arid heat of July and August. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked me.
‘I was just saying some prayers,’ I lied.
William smiled at this and pushed the hair from his face, allowing the sunlight to shine through the skin of his ears. For a moment, my older brother didn’t seem to be quite as handsome as I had always imagined and for some inexplicable reason this thought suddenly saddened me.
‘So you haven’t been mooning over Maud Woodstock, then?’ he laughed.
‘No,’ I replied sharply. ‘Of course not. I told you before. I’m not in love with her.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
He joined me beside the wall. ‘Gilbert’s been trying to find you,’ he said. ‘He’s been looking everywhere.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked, feeling instantly nervous. Gilbert had given me a wide berth since our last meeting in the chapel.
My brother shrugged, pulling a flower from a small dog rose that had seeded itself between the old stones. He carelessly rolled the petal between his fingers, released the perfume and then flicked the bruised remains to the floor. ‘He’s probably on some mission from Father,’ he said. ‘So, I don’t blame you for hiding up here.’
‘I’m not hiding,’ I said quickly. ‘I just like the peace and quiet, that’s all.’
‘For your prayers?’
‘That’s right.’
William turned to stare into the distance. ‘There’s nothing wrong with hiding from Father,’ he said. When I didn’t answer, he continued, ‘When I was a child, I used to come up here to hide from Father myself.’
‘You did?’
He inclined his head back to look at me, and once again the sun caught the skin of his ears, as if he were in possession of two small pink wings. ‘You see, Little Brother. You weren’t the only one who tried to keep out of his way.’
I looked at my feet, not knowing how to answer this.
William cast his eyes back into the distance. ‘I liked it up here,’ he said. ‘I could look down into the village and see all those little people in the distance, scurrying about like ants. Whereas I felt as if I were a giant.’ He gave a laugh. ‘It made me feel powerful for once.’ He paused. ‘Can you understand
why that was so important to me, Oswald? After Father had made me feel so small and helpless.’
‘Yes. I do understand,’ I replied. ‘And I’m sorry that happened.’
‘Oh don’t be sorry,’ he smiled. ‘It’s not your fault. But thank you for listening,’ he said, before adding, ‘It’s a rather foolish confession and I’ve never admitted it to anybody before.’ He paused for a moment, before feeling about in the scrip that was hanging over his shoulder, and pulling out a small, grimy object. ‘By the way, I found this today,’ he said, passing the thing to me. ‘I’d forgotten I even had it. But I thought you’d like it back.’
I looked down to see the pewter knight that my father had brought back from London, and then presented to me in front of the family. ‘My knight,’ I gasped. ‘I always thought you threw him into the well?’
William gave an awkward smile. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. That’s what I wanted you to think.’ He hesitated and then puffed his lips. ‘The truth is, I threw a stone down instead, to make you think it was your toy. I wanted to punish you for releasing that foolish dog. But it was very cruel of me,’ he added. ‘So I wanted to apologise. For this, and for all the other times that Richard and I tormented you as a child.’ He heaved the longest of sighs. ‘I can’t speak for Richard. But I know that I’m ashamed of myself. Whatever Father did to me, I shouldn’t have taken out my frustrations on you.’ He bowed his head. ‘You didn’t deserve that treatment, Oswald. You’re my brother. A fellow de Lacy, and I just hope you can forgive me?’