by S. D. Sykes
Wiping my mouth clear of the bitter bile, I looked back into the clearing to see Leofwin untie the sack. I now had the dreadful feeling that he was about to empty the dead thing he carried into the pit alongside the other bodies, where he thought it would lie undetected in its bed of bones. But instead he lifted the sack and dropped its contents upon the ground. Now I almost didn’t want to look, half expecting to see a body. The corpse of another murdered girl?
But this was not a human victim. Instead it was a butchered sheep. Skinned, bloody and hacked into pieces.
I let out a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. For then faces emerged from the trees at the edge of the clearing. Black skulking forms. Strange and sinister creatures, with low, prowling bodies. They crept warily towards the meat, glancing nervously from side to side and tentatively sniffing at the air.
It was then that I realised that Peter had been right all along. I had indeed been fooled the last time I came here by exhaustion and terror. It had been a delusion. I almost laughed at my mistake. For these were not dog-headed beasts. They were simply wolves.
I then stepped a little too far forward and slipped down the leafy bank, announcing my presence to Leofwin and his lupine friends. But only the smallest wolf looked up from the meat and growled at me, baring his long white teeth. The others were too interested in their feast.
Leofwin was angry to see me. ‘What are you doing here? You swore not to return.’
‘Why are you feeding wolves?’
‘None of your business.’ He then looked anxiously over my shoulder. ‘Have you brought others with you?’
‘No.’
Leofwin scanned the clearing nervously. He didn’t believe me. ‘Then what are you doing here? Leave us alone!’
‘Why didn’t you tell me it was wolves who circled me that night? You let me believe it was evil phantoms.’
He threw back his head and laughed, revealing his peculiar teeth to their full glory. ‘Why do you think?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said innocently. The small wolf now advanced towards me, and suddenly the others in his pack began to take interest.
‘Because you would return to hunt them,’ he said.
‘But they’re dangerous animals, Leofwin. Look at them.’ I watched their lithe frames stalk towards me. Their eyes were cruel and yellow. ‘The king has decreed they must be eradicated from England.’
Leofwin reddened at my words. ‘Who cares what the king says. Not me!’
‘But wolves attack people.’
‘Only when they’ve been threatened themselves.’
I instinctively drew my dagger as the creatures began to circle. ‘Call them off.’ I edged towards the boy.
Leofwin smiled. ‘Stay still and drop your knife.’
‘But—’
‘Just do as I say.’
I took a deep breath and obeyed. The wolves regarded me a while longer.
‘Look to the ground and remain still,’ Leofwin told me. ‘Don’t stare them in the eye.’ I followed his instructions and slowly the wolves lost interest, retreating to an easier meal.
I spoke softly now and kept my eyes upon the muddy forest floor. ‘You put your life in danger by doing this.’
‘They won’t harm me.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
I looked up to see he had reddened again. ‘But if I don’t protect them. Who will?’
‘Surely they can look after themselves, Leofwin? They are wolves.’
He took me by the arm. ‘They are killed when they go near villages. I feed them to make sure they stay in this valley.’
‘But why?’
He turned his back on me and wouldn’t answer.
‘Why, Leofwin? They’re wild animals. Vicious and pitiless.’
He whispered, ‘Just leave us alone. You don’t understand.’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘They are hunted down and killed if they stray outside of this forest.’ His teeth sounded gritted. ‘They are the same as me.’
‘Of course they’re not.’
‘Yes. They are!’ Now he raised his voice. ‘Don’t you see? There is no place for us in this world.’
We stood in silence with only the sound of teeth on bone.
Leofwin took my arm. ‘Do you want to go now?’
I nodded.
‘Will you return with hunters and poison?’
‘I came here to find dog heads, Leofwin. Not wolves.’ I took his hand, gripping his strange webbed fingers. ‘I will not return. I give you my word.’
My arrival back at Somershill that evening coincided with Brother Peter’s return from Rochester. I was tired, but seemingly not as tired as he. Watching him unsaddle his pony, I noticed the veins across his cheeks had deepened to a spider’s web of purple. The whites of his eyes were now as yellow as buttermilk.
After the most cursory of greetings, I followed him to the cellar where I lit the candle and sat myself on a bench, waiting until Peter had poured nearly half a bottle of the honey-coloured liquid into his mouth. With the wine still glistening on the hair of his top lip, he drooped down beside me. The bench creaked a little at his landing.
I would tell you I was concerned about Peter’s drinking, but experience had taught me there was no sense in worrying. I had pestered him enough times in the past after the occasional drunken bouts that had nearly ended very badly – such as treading on the abbot’s robe at the Easter vigil, or almost amputating Brother Mark’s healthy arm.
Brother Peter was past giving up his drink, and now, far from killing him, it seemed to keep him alive. And at least he wasn’t an unpleasant drunk, such as Father Luke – an old crab apple of a priest who drank cider until he vomited, and then started all over again.
‘How was your visit to the cathedral?’ I asked, when Peter finally opened his eyes.
He sat up a little straighter, rubbed his face and rearranged his black Benedictine habit. ‘Not so good, I’m afraid, Oswald. The bishop can’t help us with Cornwall.’
‘Oh. I see.’ I attempted to sound surprised, but in my opinion this plan had always been lacking in chances of success.
‘The problem is, he has nobody to replace Cornwall.’ Peter took another slug of the wine. ‘There’s hardly a soul left at the cathedral. The bishop has lay monks mixing herbs for the hospital, and altar boys saying mass.’ He laughed softly. ‘Some might call it sacrilege.’
‘So you couldn’t call in your favour?’
He frowned. ‘Favour?’
‘You said the bishop would have to cooperate with you. Remember?’
He waved his hand at me. ‘Of course I remember. But the world has turned inside out since the last time I saw the bishop. Old debts are no longer recognised.’ He puffed his lips and sighed. ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘So we are stuck with Cornwall,’ I groaned.
‘It appears so.’ He offered me the bottle. ‘Here, Oswald. Cheer yourself up with some of this. It’s a sweet Malvasia.’
I took it from him, examining the neck and deciding not to drink from it. A small leather cup lay on the floor by a half-empty sack of rye flour. It hadn’t been washed since its last use and a sticky residue had fastened itself to the bottom surface. Wiping the cup out with my sleeve, I dislodged a dead fly.
‘You know Matilda Starvecrow’s head was found in St Blaise’s well?’ I said, pouring myself some wine.
Peter nodded solemnly. ‘The toll keeper told me. Such sad news.’
‘It’s given Cornwall a whole new wind.’
‘Was the girl’s throat mutilated?’
I nodded.
Peter took a deep breath and turned to look at me. For the first time ever I noticed his eyes were not symmetrically positioned on either side of his nose, and the hairs growing on his chin were red rather than black. He needed to shave.
He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to speak with you regarding the Cynocephali, Oswald.’
‘Oh yes.’
I crossed my arms and frowned. ‘Well I know they don’t.’
He looked at me quizzically. ‘So sure now, Oswald? Not a month ago you claimed to have seen them yourself. By the plague pit.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Brother Peter about the wolves, but I decided against it. I had made a pledge to Leofwin to keep their existence a secret. This time I would keep my promise to the boy. ‘I imagined them, Brother. You were right all along.’
‘But that’s just it. Perhaps you didn’t?’ His hand was shaking a little. ‘If the bishop is certain they exist, then perhaps we should give the story some credence?’
I could hardly believe this turn-around, and must have let my mouth hang open.
‘He’s a bishop, Oswald. A learned man.’
‘So, he’s no longer a jackass in a cope. Isn’t that what you used to call him?’
‘I did not.’
I tried to stand up, but Peter pulled me back down again. ‘We must at least consider the possibility, Oswald.’
This topic of conversation was beginning to irritate me. ‘Why? It’s nonsense. And always has been.’
‘But others don’t feel that way, Oswald.’ He paused a little and then sighed. ‘I wish it was not me to tell you this.’
‘Tell me what?’
He pinched at the mole on his neck. ‘As I was returning from Rochester, I met Cornwall in charge of a pilgrimage. The whole village was with him.’ His voice was soft. Almost apologetic.
‘That can’t be right. The men were harvesting today. I told Featherby to organise it.’
‘No, they’re weren’t, Oswald. They’re walking to St John’s in the marsh to pray for deliverance.’
‘From what?’
‘The dog heads of course!’
St John’s in the marsh was twenty miles away, meaning this pilgrimage would interrupt work in my fields for at least three days. I stood up again, this time dodging Peter’s attempt to grab me. ‘I can’t allow this to happen. Cornwall didn’t ask my permission. I’ll have to catch up with them. They can’t just leave Somershill at this time of the year.’
Peter jumped nimbly to his feet and put up his arm to block my way. ‘No, Oswald. Let them pray for deliverance. Let this whole episode blow over. You have made enough of an enemy of Cornwall.’
‘But—’
‘Let him sell his pardons and pieces of saint bones. And let him organise his pilgrimage. Your men will be back to work in a couple of days. By then I guarantee they will be bored of the whole matter.’
‘Let me pass.’
He pushed me back violently. ‘No! Do as I tell you.’ I kept back in the shadows. The candlelight made strange shapes across the damp walls and illuminated the red hairs of Peter’s chin.
He took a number of deep breaths and held his chest. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. I’ve failed you. I encouraged you to investigate these murders. I encouraged you to confront Cornwall. I even travelled to the bishop to try to remove the man. But my interference has only hindered you and made your task here more difficult. I beg you, Oswald. Let this matter lie.’
‘But I know the Starvecrow sisters weren’t murdered by dog heads. I’m ashamed I ever considered the possibility.’ I looked into his tired eyes. ‘And you feel the same, don’t you, Brother? Regardless of what the bishop has to say.’
He turned to avoid my gaze. ‘We must both learn to do what is expedient, Oswald. Otherwise we won’t survive. The world outside the monastery is base and brutal. We can no longer afford our high principles and morals.’
‘So, now you want me to believe in dog heads? Is that what you’re saying?’
He stepped forward and took me by the hands. ‘What I’m saying is this. Let the villagers have their dog head story. It harms you more to fight it. Release Joan Bath and be done with this matter.’
‘But what if she’s guilty?’
Peter dropped my hands. ‘You’ve had her locked up in a gaol house for weeks, Oswald. How can she be guilty?’
He reddened a little. It was hot and stuffy in the chamber now, and the candle was giving off the unpleasant odour of burning hair. I noted pearls of sweat across Peter’s forehead. He flopped back down on the bench and mopped his brow.
‘Don’t let’s argue. Please.’ He patted the bench, motioning for me to sit beside him. I refused, but he held out his hand to me. ‘Please, Oswald. We only have each other.’ Reluctantly, I joined him.
‘Let’s examine the evidence against Joan Bath,’ he said. ‘How do we explain the head in the well? You must concede Joan couldn’t have done this.’
‘Perhaps her sons did it? The two boys who ran off when she was arrested.’
He nodded. ‘It’s possible, of course. But why would they do such a thing? With a dead body, Joan can no longer argue the girl has run away. So why would her sons exhume Matilda, remove her head and place it in a holy shrine? It doesn’t make sense.’
I stuttered, ‘I don’t know. But she could still be guilty of the murder of Alison.’
‘I disagree. I think both murders were committed by the same perpetrator. The attack at the neck is the main indication.’
‘But they were attacked in different ways, Brother. Alison’s neck was cut cleanly, whereas Matilda’s neck appeared to be hacked away at. And I’m certain her head was removed a long time after her death.’
‘What leads you to that conclusion?’
‘The maggots on her neck were as large as in a newly made wound.’
‘But her corpse had been in the soil. This could have delayed putrefaction.’
I shrugged. In truth I knew too little about the decay of the human body. Particularly once a person had been buried.
‘And are you sure Alison’s neck was cut?’ he asked. ‘Not assaulted in some way?’
I thought back to the shaded glade where we first saw Alison Starvecrow’s body. The memory was fading, but I recalled thinking of a blade and not a set of teeth. ‘I think so,’ I said.
‘How was her body placed when you found it? Could it have had ritual or pagan meaning?’
‘I can’t say. She’d been disturbed by Gower’s pigs.’
We sat silently for a short while, while Peter drummed his fingers on his cheeks. A mouse scurried across the floor, then stopped perfectly still by the sack of rye flour, thinking if it didn’t move, I wouldn’t see it. Its heart beat visibly in its tiny chest.
Peter broke the silence. ‘To me, these crimes bear the hallmark of devilry. Particularly the manner in which Matilda’s head was deposited in a holy well. It was not a random choice to leave it there.’
I found a cherry stone on the floor. ‘When you say devilry, I take it you mean dog heads?’ I threw the stone at the mouse, but my aim was poor. The creature wriggled under the sack, its long tail and bony feet the last parts of its body to disappear.
‘I’m at least willing to keep an open mind on the matter.’ I went to argue with Peter, but he held up his hand to me. ‘No more quarrelling, Oswald. Please. I need to rest. My journey has been a long one.’ He put one hand on my shoulder and then got to his feet.
No longer displaying the nimbleness of his earlier movements, he stretched his back and arms stiffly, just as the door opened and Gilbert lumbered in with a barrel of ale.
‘You should announce your entry with a knock,’ said Peter, shielding his eyes from the light.
Gilbert harrumphed. ‘What you doing in here, priest? Always appearing and disappearing.’
Gilbert hadn’t seen me as the sudden breeze had extinguished our candle. I stepped into the light. ‘Brother Peter was with me. We were talking.’
Gilbert raised an eyebrow. ‘Funny place to talk. It’s as damp as a dew pond in here, sire.’ He dropped the barrel next to the sacks of rye. ‘Look at this flour. It’ll be full of weevils soon
.’
I shrugged. For at that moment, I didn’t care.
I felt disturbed and irritated. Angry with Brother Peter for his volte-face, but also angry with myself. I had been undermined by a parish priest and his pilgrimage. And I had been a fool in so many other ways. My education had centred on rational argument and the study of empirical evidence. I had read Roger Bacon and Aristotle. And yet I had allowed myself to believe in monsters and shadows. I had even whispered words into the soil of a grave. There had been a good reason why Alison did not reply to me. She was dead.
The Starvecrow sisters had not been killed by devilry as Peter maintained, but neither had they been murdered by Joan. I had to admit that much. She could not have put the head in the well herself, and I doubted her sons would have come up with such a macabre scheme. It would neither help their mother nor have been an easy task for two young boys. Even two such resourceful young men.
I had been wrong to imprison Joan for so long.
At first light the next morning I went to the gaol house, but found the main door was locked. Wondering if Henry Smith, the gaoler, had joined the pilgrimage and abandoned Joan Bath to her cell, I banged heavily on the door until hearing some feet come running from the other side. It was Henry himself, looking rather sheepish and red about the face. When he opened Joan’s cell, her dishevelled dress and the disturbed blanket gave away the reason for his embarrassment. Not wanting to listen to Henry’s excuses, I asked him for the key and then told him to return home.
Joan turned her back to me and combed her hair, which was long and black – though a few lonely white strands had found a foothold at her temples. As she ran the comb along her shining tresses, she released the scent of rose oil and camphor. It was momentarily heady and appealing in this dirty and dismal place.
‘I need to ask you some more questions,’ I said. ‘And you would be wise to turn and face me.’
‘I’ve answered all your questions again and again, sire,’ she said, taking three portions of the hair and forming them into a plait. ‘I’ve nothing else to tell you.’ She didn’t turn around.