by S. D. Sykes
He nodded towards the window beside his bed. The shutter was lifted, and the oilcloth pulled back to reveal a short view. ‘I’ve still got my eyes,’ he said. ‘And I’ve needed something to look at. Stuck in here on my own.’ He waved at the bedroom door. ‘That bitch never comes in.’ He coughed again. ‘Your Brother Peter has been spying on women,’ he managed another laugh. ‘Lusting after them.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said quickly.
‘Believe what you like,’ he croaked. ‘But I know what I saw.’
I took a moment to peer out of the window to see the gable end of Maud’s house. In the distance, I could make out Maud’s thin maid Johanna, standing beside the fence and grooming a large white horse. Johanna couldn’t have seen my face, but she suddenly looked in my direction. The girl seemed startled and then immediately suspicious, before she scuttled back inside the house – as if she’d known she was being watched.
I turned back to Roach. ‘Which path did Maud and Rose take out of the village?’
‘Who can say?’ he answered. ‘I can’t see beyond the alley.’
‘Take a guess.’
He smiled at me – the corners of his mouth stained with blood. ‘You’ve wasted your time coming here, haven’t you?’ he rasped – his eyes lighting up with pleasure. ‘You little fool. I’m not guilty of anything… and I can’t tell you anything. Nothing at all.’ He laughed again. ‘So much for your investigation, eh?’ He closed his eyes and curled back into a ball. ‘So stop fretting about a pair of worthless whores, and do your proper job,’ he whispered. ‘Administer the sacrament and let me die in peace.’
I looked down at Roach for a moment. The once tall and strong man, now reduced to this feeble ruin. But the trials of his suffering had done nothing to temper his nature. Despite the tumours and the blackening flesh, he was still the same man inside. He had kept fast to his prejudices. Unable to find empathy, kindness or even the slightest whiff of repentance – not even on his deathbed. In some ways I pitied Roach. But in most ways, I still despised him.
‘Come back,’ he shouted, as I left the room and strode out of the house. But I didn’t turn around – not until I reached the street, where I threw myself down on the verge next to the cow, and quickly breathed in the fresh, sweet air of a summer’s day.
It was not a moment before Roach’s wife ran out after me. ‘You all done in there, are you?’ she asked. ‘Did he make his last confession?’
‘He didn’t need to,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t sorry for anything.’
She threw me a sideways glance and then bustled back inside the house, slamming the door as I let out a growl of frustration. Roach’s words stung in my ears. He had been right. My investigation was a failure. I was no further forward, despite all of my best efforts. Now Peter, Maud and Rose were missing, and I didn’t have a single idea how to find them.
As the cow munched away at the grass about my legs, I took a long swig of ale from my flask and let the sun shine down on my face. It was a trick that Peter had taught me, when I was feeling panicked and hopeless. To stop, close my eyes and turn my face to the sky. Once I had cleared my mind in this way, it occurred to me that I hadn’t completely wasted my time in speaking to Roach – the old bastard had been wrong in that respect. Thanks to him, I now knew that Peter had been in Stonebrook, and that he had subsequently followed Maud and Rose out of the village. Peter must have been keeping a watchful eye on the pair, which could only be good news – although it didn’t explain why all three of them remained missing. Maud would have returned to Stonebrook by now had she been able. I knew that she would never willingly abandon her ailing father.
I had previously dismissed the idea of searching the forest alone, but now I realised that this was the only option left open to me. But it was such a large forest, with so many different paths. I rose to my feet and walked towards the overhanging jetty of Maud’s grand house. Maud’s maid Johanna was still at home. She had to know where Maud and Rose were going.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Johanna wouldn’t open the door to me at first, despite my banging insistently – so I moved to a window and shouted through the shutters. The girl didn’t answer, but I did succeed in rousing Roger Woodstock in his upstairs bedchamber, prompting the old man to groan and bellow in his usual melancholic tones. When my efforts at the front of the house were unsuccessful, I walked around to the garden gate, where, after passing the horse, a collection of chickens and a row of peas, I found myself at the back door. I knocked at first, to no avail, so I then tried to push this door open, only to find that it was locked against me. When I went to kick it in my frustration, the door suddenly opened with Johanna’s thin face on the other side.
‘Why didn’t you answer before?’ I said, steadying myself, in the pretence that I hadn’t been about to force my way in.
The girl shrank away from me. ‘My mistress told me not to speak to anybody. Not if she wasn’t at home.’
‘But your mistress is missing, Johanna. That rule doesn’t apply any more.’
She chewed at her lip, thinking. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Look. I just need to ask you a simple question. Do you know where your mistress was going when she went missing?’
She cast her eyes to the floor and refused to speak.
‘Come on, Johanna,’ I said. ‘Think.’
I glared down at the girl, hoping to press her for an answer, when Roger Woodstock began to groan again – although this time the noise was much louder and clearer than ever before. When I listened carefully, I suddenly realised that I could hear a word. He was calling out for help.
I didn’t wait for an invitation to enter the house. Instead I pushed past Johanna, ran through the central hall and bolted up the steep wooden staircase to fling the door to his bedchamber open. Inside the room I found that Roger Woodstock had launched himself onto the floor and was attempting to wriggle on his belly towards me. His white chemise had ridden up to reveal a pair of frail, withered legs and a scabby, naked arse.
I knelt down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Tell me.’
He turned his head to mine and tried desperately to speak, though nothing materialised apart from a thin spindle of spit. I wiped his chin and then turned to see that Johanna had followed me into the room, her face horror-struck.
‘What’s going on here?’ I asked, rising to my feet again. ‘What have you been doing to this man?’
I noted that her hands were trembling. ‘Nothing.’
‘Have you been neglecting him while your mistress is missing?’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. Of course not, Brother Oswald. I would never hurt my master.’
‘Then why is he calling for help?’
Johanna looked at me blankly.
‘I distinctly heard him use that word,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked, holding a small hand to her mouth. ‘He actually said that word?’
‘Yes. I’m certain of it.’
‘But my master hasn’t spoken in two years,’ she said. ‘Not since the apoplexy.’
Woodstock groaned again – though unfortunately he had returned to lowing like a cow, and none of his words were now discernible.
I stood back, not knowing what to do next. ‘Come on,’ I said to Johanna at length. ‘Help me to lift him back into bed.’
I managed to turn Woodstock onto his side and loop my hands under his shoulders. Johanna took his shuddering feet and we hauled him back onto the bedstead, though he struggled against us. Once he was laid out, I took a long look at him, but could see no obvious signs of mistreatment. The man was wearing clean clothes. The sheets were dry and there was no smell of urine or faeces about the room. He was fed and clothed at least.
It was then that I noticed a small cup on the table beside the bed, full to the brim with a murky brown liquid. When I lifted this cup to my nose, I found that the contents smelt sharp and vinegary. ‘What
’s this?’ I asked.
Johanna looked away.
‘What is it?’ I asked again, more insistent this time.
‘It’s something I made myself,’ she said quietly. ‘To help my master sleep.’
My suspicions were immediately raised. ‘What’s in it?’
‘It’s just dandelion root and wine,’ she replied. ‘Nothing more than that.’
I lifted the cup to my lips and took the smallest of sips, tasting the sourness of the wine, before the bitterness of the dandelion coated my tongue. ‘No wonder he’s unhappy,’ I said. ‘Who would want to drink this?’
‘But it does him good,’ she objected.
‘What does he normally have?’ I asked.
Johanna looked away again, wary and suspicious. Her hands continued to tremble. ‘My mistress buys a tonic of valerian root, mixed with skullcap and lime blossom.’
‘She buys it?’ I asked. ‘Where from?’
‘A woman in Winchester,’ she whispered. ‘She brews her own decoctions.’
I immediately understood why Johanna had been reticent to answer my question. Medicine was the preserve of men – the Benedictines and the physicians – not a field in which a woman should dabble. At least that was the view of most men. In fact, I had often heard Brother Peter describe the women who sold herbal remedies as witches and poisoners, whose so-called cures often did more harm than good. We had dealt with enough poisonings at the infirmary to know the dangers of taking medicines that were brewed up by the ignorant. So many times we had forced a poor unfortunate to drink an infusion of Devil’s Bit to induce vomiting, after this person had bought some potion at a country fair, or in the back streets of a local town. But, in all honesty, just as many sufferers had been poisoned following a consultation with a learned physician. Taking herbal remedies was always a risky business, whether they were prescribed by a man who had studied medicine at university, or by a woman who cooked up decoctions in her kitchen.
‘Stick to a simple tisane of chamomile or dill,’ I advised. ‘The man is choleric. You need to decrease his heat and balance his yellow bile.’
Johanna nodded in response, just as Roger Woodstock made another attempt to launch himself from the bedstead, with his hands flailing and his mouth gaping. With a great effort, Johanna and I succeeded in pushing him back against the mattress, where he continued to fight us, until his breathing finally calmed to a shallow rise and fall, and his body relaxed.
After this attack, I sat with the old man for a while to ensure that he was truly settled. As I held his hand he looked at me with a pair of expressive eyes –and for the briefest of moments I thought that he was trying to speak again. His mouth formed an oval. His lips moved tremulously over his teeth. I could see that there was a sane and aware person behind this façade – a person who knew his mind but could not use it to control his body. His face was afflicted with a palsy that had rendered speech impossible, and all that emanated from his mouth after so much effort was another thin line of spittle. Eventually a tear trickled down his cheek as he finally surrendered. Exhausted and defeated, he closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall to one side.
When we were certain that he was truly sleeping, Johanna and I crept out of the room, but not before I’d taken one last look at the man. Roger Woodstock had always enjoyed the reputation of being arrogant, miserly and cruel, but now he was almost pitiable. This was no way for a person to live, no matter their faults or misdeeds. Lying in a bed all day and night, unable to talk, walk or even feed himself.
I turned away. Appalled at the reality of a long and lingering death – for a young man rarely contemplates the end of life, and certainly not in these terms. It is the conceit of youth – that death only happens to other people. If a young man thinks of his death at all, he imagines a valiant defeat in battle, or perhaps even a fight to the bitter end in defence of a dearly beloved wife or child. But he never imagines dying like this. Lying in bed as a frail and powerless old man. Fully aware of the world about him and yet utterly unable to connect with it.
* * *
After this experience, I followed Johanna to the kitchen where she ladled a cup of ale for me from the barrel. ‘Here, Brother Oswald,’ she said, offering me the cup. ‘Drink this. I think you need it.’
‘Does your master know that Maud is missing?’ I asked, taking the cup from her, and quickly downing the ale. ‘Is that why he’s so upset?’
The girl nodded. ‘I had to tell him,’ she admitted. ‘My master always looks for his daughter. Hoping to see her face, whenever I enter the room.’
‘Does he understand what you’re saying to him?’
She nodded. ‘It’s just his body that fails,’ she told me. ‘Not his mind.’ She paused. ‘I think he understands everything.’
I put down my cup. We had spent too long discussing Roger Woodstock. It was not my reason for being here. ‘Do you know where your mistress was going?’ I asked. ‘On the day she went missing. It’s very important to me that you try to remember.’
Johanna dropped her shoulders and looked away. ‘I’m not sure exactly.’
‘But you know that she left Stonebrook with Rose Brunham?’ I said.
‘Yes, well…’ Johanna hesitated for a moment. ‘I know that Rose came to the back door and asked to speak with my mistress.’
‘Did you listen to their conversation?’
Johanna shifted from one foot to the other. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I never listen when I shouldn’t. The mistress doesn’t like it.’
‘Just tell me the truth,’ I said wearily. ‘Did you hear where they were planning to go? Yes or no?’
Once again she hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t say. The mistress doesn’t like me to eavesdrop.’
‘God’s bones, Johanna! As I said to you earlier. Maud’s rules don’t apply any more. So just tell me where they were heading. Your mistress will thank you for eavesdropping on this occasion.’ When Johanna continued to hesitate, I laid my hand on her twig-like arm. ‘Maud will be pleased that you’ve helped me, Johanna. I can promise you that.’
She began to tremble again. Even though Maud had disappeared, I could see that it was almost impossible for this girl to disobey her mistress’s rules. ‘They took the north road out of Stonebrook,’ she said finally.
‘Where were they going?’
Johanna took a deep breath and relaxed. ‘To collect the root of the Pestilence wort,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I heard them talking about it. It’s said that this plant can ward off plague.’
I couldn’t help but sigh at this comment. Having just come from Roach’s deathbed, I knew there wasn’t a herb on earth that could save a person from this disease. ‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘Around noon. Two days ago.’
‘The north road,’ I repeated. ‘You are absolutely sure about that?’
She nodded her head silently, and I could only hope that she was telling me the truth, because I had no other information to rely upon. ‘Did your mistress take a horse?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘They didn’t plan to go far into the forest. And it’s difficult to ride up onto that road from the village. The ridge is steep.’
I placed the cup on the table and rose to leave – but I couldn’t go without asking one last question. ‘Tell me, Johanna. Have you seen anything of an older priest recently? A man called Brother Peter.’
She stiffened immediately. ‘Brother Peter?’
‘Yes,’ I said brightly, trying to sound as if I were asking an offhand question. ‘He’s the infirmarer at Kintham Abbey. You may have seen him with me before.’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t think so.’
I was far from convinced by her answer. ‘So you haven’t seen Brother Peter near to the house?’
Johanna hesitated again, appearing to consider the question with all the care and consideration of a witness speaking in court. ‘No. I haven’t seen him,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t her
e.’
Her answer was too definite. Almost rehearsed. ‘Are you sure about that, Johanna?’ I asked.
Her trembling resumed. ‘I’m not to say.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Has somebody frightened you?’
‘He told me not to tell anybody that he was here. He said I would get into trouble.’
‘Who told you that?’ I asked.
She hesitated again, her face now as white as a cerecloth.
‘Was it Brother Peter?’ I asked. ‘Did he say that to you?’
She nodded lightly, as if not wanting to fully commit herself to this answer. ‘I found him outside, near to the back door,’ she whispered. ‘On the day before my mistress went missing. I knew somebody was there because the chickens kept squawking. So I went outside to look around.’ She suddenly gulped. ‘When I caught him hiding in the shadows, he grabbed me.’
‘Grabbed you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He pulled me into the alley. Between this house and Master Roach’s.’ She shuddered, clearly very uncomfortable at this memory. ‘He said that I wasn’t to tell anybody that he’d been there.’
‘And did you tell anybody?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Not even your mistress?’
‘No,’ she said, looking up at me earnestly. ‘I was scared of him, Brother Oswald. So I didn’t say a word to anyone.’
I forced a smile. ‘There’s no reason to be frightened of Brother Peter,’ I assured her. ‘He was only watching over the women of this village. To make sure that you’re safe.’
‘Oh,’ she said, as her frown lines deepened. ‘Is that what he was doing?’
‘Yes,’ I replied firmly. ‘Of course it was.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
I followed the north road from Stonebrook, up a track that ascended a steep slope to a vast wooded plateau – a part of the forest where my brothers sometimes liked to hunt. These ancient forests were thick with oak and ash trees that had been allowed to grow to maturity. There was no coppicing here. No hazel or chestnut cut down into stunted, knotted stools. In this part of the forest the trees had grown upwards with single trunks, like pillars in a vast crypt. Their branches spread out from the top of these pillars in thickly covered arches, denying light to much of the forest floor below. There was little vegetation beneath these trees as a result. Instead the shadow of the canopy created long, dark corridors that stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction. This suited the huntsman to perfection. This way he could easily navigate the forest on horseback, whilst getting a clear view of his dogs as they chased down their prey. This forest was not the home of the swineherd, the charcoal burner or the humble woodsman. It was a place reserved for men of nobility, as their boundless, sylvan playground.