by S. D. Sykes
‘Then you’ll receive no dowry,’ I said. ‘Think of the shame that would cause you.’
Clemence pulled Merrion down and whispered soothingly into his ear. ‘What is shame any more? Who is to care what I do?’
‘The world has not changed so very much,’ said Brother Peter. ‘The king’s court still listens to gossip and scandal. The Pestilence did not destroy protocol and etiquette.’
Clemence turned on him. ‘What do you know about such things? You’re nothing but a farmhand with a set of rosary beads and a book of herbs. What would you know about protocol and etiquette?’
‘Brother Peter was infirmarer at the abbey, Clemence. He has a respected position,’ I said.
Clemence laughed. ‘Respected? By whom?’
‘By me.’
She pointed a finger. ‘You may refuse me, little brother, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need your permission. Nor your dowry.’
‘I’m not sure de Caburn would agree.’
She laughed again. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Walter expected such a reaction from you and is happy to marry me with neither.’ She took a stool from the side and stood on it to mount Merrion.
‘Hold his tether,’ she instructed Humbert, as she lifted her skirts and climbed into the saddle. ‘I shall be visiting Walter at Versey Castle. Don’t try to stop me.’ Clemence pulled at the reins and Merrion shied fretfully, almost flattening Brother Peter against the wall of the stable. She then dug in her heels and was gone, galloping across the field with her cloak waving behind her like a battle standard. Humbert gazed after her, until she had become just a dot on the horizon, before turning back to the house pathetically, like a swan that has lost his mate.
Brother Peter took my arm. ‘You must stop this marriage, Oswald. It’s a dangerous union.’
‘I agree. Look at the fate of de Caburn’s last two wives. Why should Clemence fare any better?’
Peter shook his head as if I were the most dull-witted boy in his class of novices. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘What do you mean then?’
‘De Caburn wishes to marry your sister and is not demanding a dowry. Does that sound likely?’
‘Perhaps he loves her?’
‘And perhaps the Devil drinks holy water?’
Peter picked up the elderflowers and coltsfoot Clemence had thrown about the stable floor, and crammed their wilted stalks and blossom in amongst the hay of Merrion’s horsebox. ‘The horse should eat these herbs. His lungs are laboured,’ he muttered into his cowl. He then cleared his throat and turned to address me. ‘De Caburn is marrying Clemence for her land, Oswald. That’s why he doesn’t require a dowry.’
‘She doesn’t have any land.’
‘Not presently.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
Peter raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Clemence has no land now, but there is only one de Lacy between your sister and the Somershill estate. And that person is you.’
I stepped back. ‘Clemence doesn’t appear to care for me, Brother. But I don’t think she would wish me dead.’
He shook his head and waved his hand in irritation. ‘No, no. I don’t see Clemence behind such a scheme.’
‘Then what are you suggesting?’
‘I have no doubt Clemence believes de Caburn to be in love with her. And even if she doesn’t hold out such hopes, it is at least a marriage. And you know how she craves to be a married woman. If only to escape the persistent goading she receives from your mother.’
‘You mean I should be worried about de Caburn?’
‘Of course that’s what I mean!’
‘But he wouldn’t dare to harm me.’
Peter shook his head. ‘Don’t be so sure, Oswald. I took confession in his parish when there on abbey business. I heard of de Caburn’s sins from his own tenants and villeins.’ He took my hand and whispered. ‘You were right to call the man a monster.’
‘So what should I do then?’ I will admit to feeling irritated. Peter was right to bring this matter to my attention, but I can’t say I felt grateful. ‘Isn’t running the Somershill estate and solving the murder of the Starvecrow sisters enough?’ I said, a little sullenly.
Peter waved my childishness away. ‘Never mind the murders for the time being. It’s more important that you stop this marriage.’
‘And how am I supposed to stop Clemence? You know what she’s like.’
Peter sighed and beckoned me to leave the stables with him. ‘I don’t know.’ He closed the door behind us. ‘But I’ll think of something.’
There was a troublesome logic to Peter’s argument. I didn’t really know de Caburn. I sometimes raised a hand to him across a field, or shared a bench with him at a Michaelmas day feast. I only knew enough not to trust him. My father would not even sell him a sheep.
Peter and I walked back towards the house, through a wet meadow of tufted vetch and creeping buttercup. A blackbird sang to us, and honeybees buzzed about the flower heads with their industrious drone. I wondered at how animals and plants carry on with their lives, undeterred by the troubles of mankind.
Peter remained silent for most of our walk and then suddenly clapped his hands together. ‘You must write to de Caburn immediately, Oswald.’
‘And say what? That we have uncovered his wicked plot?’
‘No, of course not.’ He drew me close to whisper, even though the only spies would have been a slippery grass snake or a garrulous robin. ‘Tell de Caburn you have arranged for Clemence to marry somebody else. It’s a contract you cannot break.’
‘Who? De Caburn will insist upon knowing a name.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Forget that idea.’ But there was only the briefest of pauses before the next scheme came rolling off his tongue. ‘I know. You must tell de Caburn there is a codicil in your father’s will.’ His voice was quickening with agitated excitement. ‘Yes, yes. This will work. In the event of your death, the estate will not accede to Clemence if she is married. Tell him it was your father’s dying wish.’
‘Is such a codicil possible?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘So what use is it then?’
Peter waved his hand at me in frustration. ‘I’m not an expert in law, Oswald. But neither is Walter de Caburn. He will not marry your sister without the sniff of personal gain.’
‘But he’ll consult a man of law and find out it’s a lie.’
‘Of course he will. But he won’t find one still alive in these parts. He would need to go to the ecclesiastical courts in Canterbury, and that would mean delaying the wedding.’ When I shrugged at this suggestion, he shook me. ‘It will buy us some time to persuade Clemence to change her mind.’
‘I don’t think it will work.’
‘I disagree. Clemence will tell everybody they are to marry by St Swithin’s. But if de Caburn postpones the ceremony, it will humiliate Clemence. Your sister is a very proud woman, and we may find she refuses de Caburn a second time, once he has discovered our little story has no credence. It is at least worth a try.’
‘But a letter seems rather weak, Brother.’
He caught me by the arm. ‘What do you suggest then, Oswald? Riding to Versey and facing the man? He would kill you on the spot.’
‘De Caburn wouldn’t dare do something so foolish.’
Peter shook me again. ‘Don’t be so naïve. He might not cut you down with his own sword, but he would certainly poison you or even push you into his moat and then pretend it was an accident.’ I went to answer, but Peter shook me a third time and I hadn’t the wind to tell him how ridiculous his theory sounded.
Instead I turned from him like a scolded dog, but he gently pulled me back. Seeing he had caused offence, he suddenly stroked my forehead and pushed the hair from my eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘No. You shouldn’t have. I am your lord as well, Brother.’
He bowed his head. ‘But you will write to de Caburn?’
I sighed. ‘Yes. Very well.’
Chapter Nine
The following morning I rose early with the intention of giving this promised letter to Piers to take to Versey. It had been written the night before – but not by me, rather by Peter. He had not even trusted me to put my own quill to the parchment. I cannot deny this had annoyed me – and now walking towards the stable with the rolled letter in my hand I suddenly had the impulse to disobey my tutor. I had seen off Cornwall by myself. Why shouldn’t I do the same with de Caburn? I was not some skulking priest from the monastery. I was Lord Somershill.
My father would not have sent a feeble letter.
On reaching the stables, I ordered Piers to saddle Tempest. When he asked me where I was going, I told him to mind his own business.
What arrogance. And what stupidity!
Versey Castle is a half-day’s ride from Somershill, through the hunting forests of the high weald. I’ve heard it said that bears and ferocious cats once lived in these wooded hills, but by 1350 there was nothing more dangerous in these glades than the shadows. Even the bandits kept away from its paths, as there was nobody to rob but poor charcoal makers or weary drovers. Even so, I did not linger at any point, not even to take a piss.
Riding in towards Versey from the north-west, the castle appeared to be surrounded by its own moat, although on nearing the place it became clear the masons had simply made use of the river Guise as it flowed along the bottom of this remote valley. The water moved languidly at this point in the river’s path towards the Medway, but still it moved – unlike the green and stinking pools that encircled many moated manor houses.
The Normans had built Versey to daunt and dishearten, but its position for farming was less favoured, with its steep valleys and cold clay soil. It was often said de Caburn coveted my flatter pastures with my barley and wheat – as his tenants had to be content raising sinewy cattle that barely produced enough milk to feed their own calves.
The river Guise also gave rise to mists and fogs, which enveloped the castle and had beset the family with congested lungs and heavy coughs. It was Mother’s oft-repeated opinion that the de Caburns should relocate the hall to a nearby hill, where their humours would be less assaulted by the damp of the river. But the de Caburns were knights, and Versey was built for soldiers. We might have scorned their coughs and colds, but they mocked our small endeavours and lack of battle glory. I’ve heard it said they laughed at us and called us farmers.
I dropped my pace to a slow trot as I reached the castle, and now found my resolve weakening. I had practised my codicil story repeatedly, but suddenly was unable to convince myself that it rang true. De Caburn was not Cornwall. What was I doing here? The man could assault me with more dangerous weapons than a priest’s blustering rhetoric and the swing of his cloak.
And then, as if another reminder of de Caburn’s menace were needed, I sighted some sheep in the distance, which were not the small, wiry-coated Cotswolds that de Caburn kept for his own use. They were the larger Lincolns we farmed at Somershill for their wool. Turning Tempest, I was intending to inspect the sheep at closer quarters, but the stupid animals scattered into the nearby forest leaving only their piles of dung and the reverberation of their idiotic bleating for company.
I should have followed them into the trees and escaped this place while there was a chance. Yet my bubble of pride had swollen again, and suddenly the idea of returning to Somershill and admitting my mistake to Brother Peter did not appeal. Instead I turned back towards the castle and approached the drawbridge, where a ragged boy jumped out at me and waved a small wooden sword, causing Tempest to rear.
‘Keep away from my horse,’ I shouted. ‘He’ll throw me off.’
‘You should be better at riding then,’ said the boy.
I was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a way. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded to know.
‘I’m Mary. Who are you?’
‘You’re a girl?’
‘Yes. What of it?’ Her face was filthy with mud, and the arms of her doublet swung down well past her wrists. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ she asked.
‘Where’s the gatekeeper?’
She smiled. ‘Dead. I tell Father who comes and goes.’ She waved the sword again and then performed a perfect advance lunge at Tempest’s legs.
‘You’re Mary de Caburn?’
‘Stop asking me questions.’
So this was how the man treated his own daughter. Dressed in the tattered clothes of a boy, she was working as his house servant. But she was not alone in suffering neglect, as the whole place wore the air of defeat. A tree had fallen into the moat and was gathering debris about itself, with the effect of becoming a dam. A wooden farm cart was decaying by the bridge, and crows circled over the bony carcass of a dog.
‘I’m Oswald de Lacy,’ I told the girl. ‘Lord Somershill. Please advise your father I’m here to speak with him.’
The girl ran off across the drawbridge to announce my arrival, quickly joined by another blonde-haired child who must have been hiding in the beams under the bridge like a water rat. I wondered if this child were also a daughter of the house? She was certainly dressed as badly as the first.
As I waited to be admitted to the castle, the sun made a brief appearance through the clouds, and my mood felt fleetingly lighter. I looked about me. This place was uncared for, but it was not the damp purgatory of Mother’s stories. Perhaps Clemence could be happy here, and I was wrong to prevent the marriage? She would become a lady, with her own castle, husband, and a pair of feral step-daughters to rule over. It might suit Clemence’s character and disposition. In turn, the girls might end up with dresses and manners.
As I stared into the distance, a sudden ball of shimmering blue shot along the river just above the water surface and disappeared into the trees like an enchanted orb. I must have been transfixed by its beauty since I did not notice a man approach.
‘It’s a kingfisher, de Lacy,’ he said. ‘Don’t you have them at Somershill?’ He slapped me resoundingly on the back and nearly winded me.
I turned to find the girl with her father, Walter de Caburn – his striking face framed by grey curls. ‘I believe we have a few, my lord,’ I said, and then immediately regretted using the epithet.
My mistake was not lost on de Caburn. He smiled furtively. ‘Please. Call me Walter. Now we are going to be related by marriage.’ He slapped me again, but this time I had braced my ribcage and was prepared for the blow.
‘It’s the marriage I needed to speak with you about,’ I said. But just as I was about to launch into my prepared speech, the ragged girl poked me with the tip of her sword, which turned out to be a blade of rusty metal and not the wooden toy I had previously supposed. As I dodged the second stab, de Caburn took his daughter by the back of her tunic and held her over the edge of the bridge. The girl quaked with terror but didn’t utter a word.
‘That’s not how to treat an honoured visitor, is it, Mary?’ he said, as she dangled in the air. The girl shook her head. ‘Want to end up in the moat with the shit witch, do you?’ He lowered her a little further.
The girl suppressed a sob. ‘Please forgive my error, Father. I am at fault.’ She spoke the words with the fluency of a mumbled prayer, giving the impression that this was a sentence she was often made to repeat. But by now she had controlled her trembling. Only her left eye twitched.
‘We know what it stinks like down there, don’t we?’ De Caburn shook his daughter again.
It was uncomfortable to watch the girl being so tormented. ‘Please don’t punish Mary on my behalf,’ I said. ‘The girl was only playing. I’m not offended.’
I laid my hand on de Caburn’s arm and for a moment it seemed he might push me roughly away. But then he thought better of the action. Instead he dropped Mary onto the wooden planks of the bridge.
Now he laughed. ‘We were just having a little merriment, weren’t we, girl?’
Mary picked herself up, glanced
at me with a look I took to be gratitude, then made a break across the meadow with her sister, evidently to avoid any further opportunities for merriment. Their blonde heads bobbed for a few seconds through the grass before they disappeared from sight amongst the elder and chestnut.
De Caburn watched them for a while and then sighed. ‘They need a mother, de Lacy. A woman to instil some discipline. Can she do it?’
I went to nod – for Clemence was nothing if not a disciplinarian. But my purpose in coming here was to prevent this marriage, so I quickly turned my nod into a circling of my neck.
De Caburn regarded me curiously, then led me across the drawbridge and through the inner ward of the castle to his great hall, which was cavernous compared to our own. A dirty servant lay asleep next to the central fire pit, and dogs barked and scratched from behind a heavy wooden door. From the timbre of their howls I decided they must be large deerhounds, the type of dog a man only keeps for hunting. The place smelt strongly of wood smoke and dog hair, but at least the height and width of the hall allowed for frequent draughts to alleviate the stale odour. The heads of stags and boar pigs peered down at me from every wall, like the faces of gloaters at a hanging.
De Caburn nudged the servant with his foot, though I suspected he usually roused him with a kick, as the man instinctively recoiled into a ball. ‘He’s a simpleton, I’m afraid,’ said de Caburn in a whisper, in a mockery of caring for the man’s feelings. ‘Most of my servants have perished.’
We stepped up onto the dais at the far end of the hall and sat down at a table stretching the length of the platform. It could probably seat twenty – yet today it was only laid for one.
‘I remember when this table was full,’ said de Caburn, as if he had read my thoughts. ‘But now we’re such a depleted family.’ He stared along the surface with such a look of melancholy that I suddenly felt equally cheerless. When he offered me a goblet of ale I forgot the warnings of Brother Peter about being poisoned and drank it down in one gulp before asking for more. My throat did not swell. My eyes did not give way to visions and my stomach did not twist itself into cramps. In short, it was simply ale.