by S. D. Sykes
‘I was considering releasing you, Mistress Bath. But if you continue to sit with your back to me, then perhaps I will keep you here a while longer.’
She shifted a little, but stubbornly wouldn’t face me.
‘Very well,’ I said, walking towards the door. I was tired of her games, and the air in the cell had lost its scent of camphor and now smelt unpleasantly of naked bodies.
‘Wait,’ she said, as I reached for the key. ‘What is it you want to know?’
She motioned for me to sit next to her on the bed, but I remained standing. ‘Do you believe in dog heads?’ I asked.
I expected her to leap at this opportunity to absolve herself. Instead, she huffed. ‘No. Such creatures don’t exist. Cornwall is a liar.’
‘So, who killed the girls? Can you answer me that?’
‘I have no idea, sire.’ She wiped the comb and slotted it behind her belt. ‘I was only trying to help them.’
Looking through the bars of the window, I could see Old Ralph’s tumbledown cottage in the distance. It looked more like a pigsty than a home.
‘Am I free to go then?’ she asked, standing up and gathering her belongings about her. ‘I’ll have to burn these clothes. They’re covered in lice.’
‘Sit down again. I have more questions.’ She returned to the bed reluctantly. ‘Do you know why Alison Starvecrow wanted to speak with me? On the day she went missing.’
Joan nodded. ‘I’ve told you this before, sire. She wanted you to stop her marriage to my father.’
‘But is there anything else you can remember?’
‘She claimed you would have to help her.’
This was a new fragment of information. ‘Why did she think that?’
‘She wouldn’t say, sire.’ Then she looked at me slyly. ‘Are you sure Alison didn’t speak with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She didn’t threaten to reveal a secret you would rather keep?’
I almost laughed. ‘Are you suggesting I murdered her?’
She bowed her head. ‘No.’
‘I’m aware my father visited the Starvecrow house, if that’s what you’re implying. If Alison hoped to threaten me with such a story, she would have been disappointed. I’m told it’s common knowledge.’
Joan nodded. ‘Your father visited most houses. Particularly if there was a pretty woman to call upon. But at least he left the young girls alone.’
‘So there is nothing else you can tell me about Alison?’
She folded her arms. ‘No, my lord. There isn’t.’
‘Very well. You are free to go.’
We left the dankness of the cell together and as Joan stepped into the daylight she squinted, as if she had never seen the sun before. ‘I hope it’s to be public knowledge I’m innocent,’ she said. Then she laughed. ‘That will please the village gossips.’
‘I’m sure Cornwall will be delighted to announce it in church.’
‘Are my boys free to return?’
‘Yes.’
‘And will you continue to seek the true murderer?’
‘Of course.’
She cocked her head to look at me. ‘Indeed, sire?’
I looked at my feet. ‘I’ve been advised to say the girls were murdered by dog heads.’
‘And will you?’
I shook my head. ‘No. I will not.’
She regarded me thoughtfully, then curtsied and walked away towards Old Ralph’s cottage – the tenure of which she had now inherited. Watching her go, I wondered momentarily if the woman had duped me, for she was as artful as a vixen with cubs. I disregarded the thought however. Joan might be sly, but she was not a murderer.
When the villagers returned from their worthless pilgrimage I would question each one of them again. Somebody would be able to shine a light into the shadows of this mystery. People do not live in a village as small as Somershill for their whole lives and remain unknown to their neighbours. Secrets leak from thin walls and flow through the village as quickly as the flux.
I turned back to Somershill, but was surprised when Joan caught up with me. She was breathless and looked a little uncomfortable.
‘What is it now, mistress?’
‘There is something I should tell you, sire,’ she said. ‘It’s about Cornwall’s pilgrimage.’
‘What about it?’
She took a deep breath. ‘He’s not taking the villagers to St John’s in the marsh. They are going to the chapel at Versey Castle.’
‘What?’
‘After a short mass, de Caburn is to offer them higher wages to stay on his demesne. He means to take your labour.’
I could barely speak at first. ‘Are you sure?’ She nodded. ‘And Cornwall has arranged this with de Caburn?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
She reddened. ‘Cornwall visited me in the gaol house, sire. To lecture me on my sins.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘But he’s a—’
‘A priest? Yes. He is.’ She shrugged. ‘But you’d be surprised who comes to see me. When the sun sets.’
I sighed.
‘When he wasn’t lecturing me, sire, he liked to boast. How he would become more powerful than the de Lacys. How he has important friends who will assist his rise.’
I took her by the wrist. ‘Why are you helping me?’
She tried to shake me off, but didn’t quite succeed. ‘Because . . . you care about Alison and Matilda.’
I found this difficult to believe from a woman I had imprisoned for weeks. ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ I squeezed her hand, but she didn’t flinch.
‘Go to Versey yourself then, sire. If you don’t believe me.’ She shook me off. ‘See your men working in his fields, when yours lie empty.’
‘I will.’
Chapter Fifteen
The only practical means of reaching Versey Castle from Somershill is on horseback, but I hadn’t ridden since my last visit to that place, having lost my confidence with horses since Tempest had thrown me off by the plague pit. Now I preferred to walk wherever possible. Even so, it didn’t seem a good idea to confront de Caburn on foot and demand my men return. So I saddled up Brother Peter’s pony – a beast with the spirit and energy of a caterpillar, but which could be relied upon to take me to my destination and subsequently return me.
Checking that my dagger was in its sheath, I realised Mother was watching me from the door of the stable – her mouth hanging open like a brown trout. She held Hector in her arms and stroked his bristly head.
‘Are you off to murder somebody, Oswald?’ When I didn’t answer, she dropped the dog to the floor. ‘Is there a raiding party coming?’ Should we lock the doors and close the gates?’ She pulled a small knife from inside the cuff of her gown. ‘They won’t take my honour.’
‘What sort of raiding party are you expecting, Mother? The Danes?’
She gasped. ‘Surely not?’
‘God’s bones! The Danes haven’t invaded for four hundred years.’
She pulled a face at me, and returned the blade to its secret slot in her sleeve. ‘You startled me, Oswald. I’ve not seen you arm yourself before.’
‘I’m going to Versey Castle.’
‘To visit Clemence?’
I belted my tunic and put on my leather gloves while Hector sniffed about my ankles, looking as if he were about to piss against my leg. I pressed my boot against his nose and pushed him away. ‘It’s not a social visit.’
‘Then why are you going?’
‘I’ve discovered Clemence’s new husband is bribing our men to work at Versey.’
‘Bribing our men? What with?’
‘Higher wages, Mother.’
‘That’s disgraceful.’ Her voice tightened enough to scare Hector into abandoning his attempts to urinate on my boot. He shot at speed under a nearby hay stall. ‘Who do these labourers think they are? They can’t just leave our estate when they please. You need to get them back, Oswald.’
‘That’s what I’m doing, Mother.’
‘You should go straight away.’
‘I am!’
I went to mount the pony, but Mother poked me in the arm. ‘I’m not in the least bit surprised about de Caburn, you know. The man is vermin. You should have prevented the marriage, Oswald. I said so at the time.’
‘What?’ This was contrary, even by Mother’s standards. ‘It was only Brother Peter and myself who stood against the union. If I remember, you thought it was a wonderful idea.’
‘Nonsense.’ She leant down to coax her dog out from under the stall. ‘Take Hector with you. He never liked de Caburn. Did you, sweet boy?’ She held out her hand to the wiry-coated little goblin, who met her affection with a steady growl. ‘See. He even objects to hearing the man’s name.’
‘I’m taking Humbert with me.’
‘That big oaf? What use will he be?’
‘More use than a small dog, Mother.’
Before she could continue this conversation, I got into the saddle and backed the pony out of the stable. Seeing Humbert waiting for me at the gate, I took a slow trot over to him, though Mother still managed to keep up with me, the dog now reinstated in her arms. Watching her scamper alongside me like a beggar at the city gate, I wondered what secret potions she drank to maintain her agility. For, despite her protestations of ill health, she was startlingly nimble for her age.
Humbert wore a detached smile across his face. He was hoping to see Clemence when we reached Versey, even though I had explained this would be an unpleasant visit and had ordered him to bear arms. But with a long dagger hung awkwardly from his belt, he looked about as menacing as a spring lamb. And I doubt he had any idea how to wield the weapon. For, despite being the largest boy in the village, his nature was placid and quiet. Sitting on his sturdy pony, his thick legs nearly reached the ground.
And then I thought of my father. He would have ridden to Versey with a company of men and demanded de Caburn return my farmhands. Instead, I was to approach the place with nothing more than a façade of courage and a simple-minded boy. But I could not give up on this venture. I might be afraid. But I was angry. How dare de Caburn take my men and women? It was a provocation that could not be ignored, no matter how weak my position.
There was also more at stake here. I was tired of Brother Peter’s schemes and excuses. I was tired of keeping quiet and appeasing my enemies.
I must return to being a lord.
‘Don’t tell Brother Peter where I’ve gone,’ I said to Mother, as we turned to leave.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. He would tell me to write a letter.’
For once the sun was shining hard onto the wheat and barley, which enraged me further – the village should have been working in my fields, making the most of the brief opportunity the weather had provided. Humbert and I didn’t pass a soul on the road. Not even a wandering knife-grinder or a stray dog. How empty and remote this place suddenly seemed.
‘Why do you care so much for Clemence?’ I asked Humbert as his face jolted up and down in time with his pony’s trotting.
Patches of magenta formed on his pasty cheeks. ‘She’s kind to me.’ This was as articulate as I had ever heard him sound. Perhaps because he was not looking directly at me.
‘She’s cruel to me,’ I said. ‘But that’s because I’m her brother.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s not cruel.’
I laughed. ‘She is.’
He stopped his pony and glared at me. ‘She stopped them. Always.’
‘Who?’
But now he wouldn’t answer.
‘Do you mean my brothers, Richard and William?’
He suddenly trotted on, and it was clear I had picked at the scab on an old wound. But I had that scar myself, though it was better healed than Humbert’s. My older brothers loved to torment the weak and feeble, and I had been their favourite plaything until the age of seven. They must have looked around for a new victim at my departure for the monastery, and found him in the clumsy boy who had been dumped on the doorstep and lived in the hay barn.
Reaching the forest that separates my lands from those of de Caburn, our silent journey was interrupted by a distant howl. Thumping my ear, I wanted to make sure this was not some imagining inside my head. But it was definitely a canine sound. A repeated howling and barking. Even the faithful pony picked up her ears warily, and had to be encouraged to enter the woodland path by a sharp dig in her flanks. Within a few seconds the barking had ceased and the silence returned, only disturbed by the hooves of our ponies on the track.
‘Wolves?’ I said to Humbert.
He shook his head. ‘Just dogs, sire.’ We continued, but his assurances didn’t entirely comfort me. It was humid and dark in the dense woodland, and although we kept to the track, I longed again for the open meadows and orchards of Somershill.
We had travelled on at a steady trot for nearly an hour when the barking began again, only this time we could hear voices in the distance – both male and female. A scream stabbed the air.
We stopped the ponies and listened. The sounds were coming from somewhere ahead of us, in an area of densely coppiced chestnut – trees with long saw-edged leaves that shielded the source of the noise from view.
Dismounting, we tied the ponies to an oak tree, and then I instructed Humbert to stay with the animals, whilst I crept towards the coppice with my sword drawn. The ground was wet, despite the warmer weather, and the sun had disappeared leaving a grey tone to the woodland, which only amplified the despondency of this place. The birdsong had ceased, and the carcass of a badger lay in my way, as if the path itself might lead to the underworld. Sweat beaded across my brow and my hand shook as I tried to master my fear.
Creeping closer and closer to the source of the noise, I listened for voices. Being an accomplished sneaker and creeper, I was practised in moving about unheard – as a nocturnal visit to the abbey kitchen had sometimes been the only means of a decent meal. Other novices were often caught, but not me. My feet trod as softly across the leafy soil that day, as they had at night along the stone corridors of the abbey. I did not snap the thinnest twig nor rustle the driest leaf.
Now close, I could make out muffled voices and screaming, followed by laughter. The dogs could smell my approach, since they growled and barked, but it was too late to retreat. Tightening the grip on my sword, I moved forward to pull aside a small branch in order to spy upon the scene.
I would tell you the Plague had deadened my heart. But it had not completely. What I saw that day was as repugnant as my first sight of maggots in a wound or the bulbous lesions of a leper’s face. There, in a small clearing, I saw de Caburn with his doublet raised and his braies by his ankles. He was leaning over a girl with her gown hitched up to her waist and her legs forced apart. Three men stood behind. Two were dressed in the garb of servants and I did not recognise them. But de Caburn’s third companion was well known to me. It was Cornwall. And by his face I had the impression he was waiting to take his turn.
And then de Caburn moved aside and I could see their victim.
It was Mirabel.
There was no moment of hesitation, or contemplation of the best course of action. Instead I rushed from my cover with a raised sword. ‘Get away from her!’ I shouted.
But de Caburn was a knight and had served the king in France. I could not hope to frighten such a man. He swerved deftly as I swiped at him, causing me to stumble and fall. Getting quickly to my feet, I attempted another strike, but this time de Caburn kicked me easily to the ground and then booted me again and again until a fierce pain seared through my body.
When I was completely subdued, he placed the tip of his sword at my neck. ‘Are you spying on me, de Lacy?’
I cried out for Humbert to come to my aid, but it was a mistake since this only caused de Caburn quickly to send his two servants into the forest to track down my companion. And then, as I looked through a swollen eye at Mirabel’s trembling body, a
terrible realisation came upon me. ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ I said to de Caburn.
He only laughed at me.
‘You and Cornwall. You murdered the Starvecrow sisters.’
Now he sneered. ‘Who?’
I should have considered this possibility. I should have examined the bodies of my sisters further and looked for evidence. ‘You raped them first. Didn’t you?’
He kicked me again in the face, but I would not be silenced.
Blood trickled from my mouth. ‘Cornwall invented the dog head story to cover your crimes.’ I felt a tooth come loose. ‘You’re rapists and murderers.’ The tooth dropped to the forest floor. ‘Both of you.’
At these words, de Caburn resumed his attack, but John of Cornwall did not answer my accusation, nor join in my torture. He simply slipped away into the coppice and silently disappeared.
His desertion went unnoticed by de Caburn, as the man was too interested in trying to kill me. He even failed to notice when Mirabel picked up my fallen sword and crept up behind him. She should have used the opportunity to flee while de Caburn was occupied with my termination. But I am pleased she didn’t. Her face was twisted into a knot of hatred and she might even have had the strength to fell our enemy – but I must have given her away, for just as she attempted to swing the weapon, de Caburn turned on his heels and pushed her to the ground. She screamed, calling him the foulest of names, but he just laughed at her.
There was indeed a monster in this forest.
Our only hope now was Humbert, but within moments he was also marched into the clearing by de Caburn’s men – his face cut and his tunic torn.
De Caburn recognised Humbert immediately. ‘Look. It’s my wife’s little boot-licker.’ He sauntered over and poked his sword into the boy’s groin. ‘Did my wife leave you, boot-licker?’ Humbert didn’t look up, but his shoulders were beginning to shudder. De Caburn pushed the sword in harder and put his face right into Humbert’s. ‘You wanted to lick more than her boots, didn’t you?’ Humbert’s tears now flowed. ‘Isn’t that right, boy?’
The two servants laughed at him. Perhaps it was de Caburn’s taunts, or perhaps it was the recollection of my brothers’ bullying, because Humbert screwed up his face and spat at de Caburn. I have rarely seen so much malice concentrated into so small a ball of spittle.