by S. D. Sykes
De Caburn screamed with fury. He wiped the spittle from his face and went to stab the boy, when a sudden radiance flared through the air, followed by a deafening boom that was as loud as a hammer breaking through the glass of a cathedral window. A strong burst of flame threw de Caburn and his men to the floor. The dogs broke free of their leashes and fled into the trees.
I had shielded my eyes instinctively, but Mirabel was dazed – her clothes and hair burnt. She was alive, whereas de Caburn and his men appeared lifeless and blackened, having taken the full force of the blast by virtue of being upright when it came upon us. Only Humbert remaining standing – like a pillar of scorched stone.
I took Mirabel’s limp hand to try to rouse her. But then, through a cloud of grey and acrid smoke, a figure ran towards us, waving the fumes from his face.
It was Brother Peter.
He grasped me in a powerful embrace. ‘Oswald! You’re alive. Thank the Almighty. I thought I’d made a terrible mistake.’
‘It was you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was it?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said, pulling me up. ‘We need to get out of here.’ He turned to de Caburn and his men, who were beginning to groan. ‘Quickly. They’re coming round.’
I staggered to my feet and we lifted Mirabel between us. Her hair was sooty and her thin clothes were burnt away to reveal the blackened skin of her legs. I felt guilty, since Humbert and I had been protected from the force of the blast by the leather of our tunics and boots.
Brother Peter gave his cloak to Mirabel and we wrapped her up like a small child against the wind. Then we carried her away to the ponies, but we soon found my own mount was too small to take the weight of both of us – so I was forced to use the horse that Brother Peter had ridden in our pursuit. It was my beloved Tempest, who seemed every bit as pleased to see me as I was to see him. The flames and boom hardly promised to have settled his mercurial nerves, but Brother Peter whispered into his ear and stroked his neck, before sending Mirabel and myself on our way. He and Humbert followed closely behind on the ponies.
In the distance de Caburn called my name.
His voice bore the vengeance of the Furies.
Gilbert was reluctant to wait upon Mirabel, despite her obvious injuries, so I persuaded Mother to perform the duty – once we had established Mirabel was neither my whore, nor a witch. She was given a bed in the ladies’ bedchamber, a draught of Brother Peter’s sleeping tonic, and was left to recover from the horror of the day. Mother promised to keep a vigil at her side and to feed her ale and honey if she awoke.
Once I had washed myself clean of the sooty residue, I sought out Brother Peter in the library. He was consulting his books on herbs, and writing some notes onto a separate piece of parchment.
‘Come in quickly, Oswald. I have your tooth here. If we replace it now, it will grow roots again.’
My tongue found the empty gap in my front teeth. ‘How did you find it?’
‘It was lying on the ground near where you fell. I have it in this cup.’
He showed me a small white piece of bone floating in some sour-smelling milk. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’ I asked.
‘Of course it is, Oswald. I would recognise your tooth anywhere. Now sit down here.’ He took my head in his hands. ‘Open your mouth.’ His long fingers tasted salty and rough as he pressed my tooth back into its cavity. But it wasn’t painful.
‘I suppose it was Mother who told you where I was going?’ I said. ‘Even though I asked her not to.’
‘You know the woman can’t keep a secret, Oswald.’ He passed me a bottle. ‘Here. Drink some of this to clear your mouth of corruption.’
The brandy was both fiery and soothing about my gums. ‘Thank you for coming, Brother.’
Peter took the bottle from me and drank a little himself. ‘Why did you do it, Oswald? It was very foolhardy.’
‘De Caburn’s taken all my men, Brother. I had to do something.’
‘Then offer your men higher wages to return, Oswald. You can’t use aggression against such a man as de Caburn. He is strong and violent. You must use your brains.’
‘I had to confront him for once, Brother.’
Peter threw up his hands. ‘But what good has it done you? The man nearly killed you.’
We sat in silence for a few moments. He tapped his foot upon the floor. ‘I think I’ve solved the mystery of the Starvecrow murders,’ I told him.
He stopped tapping. ‘Oh yes?’
‘It was de Caburn and Cornwall.’
He said nothing.
‘They rape young girls and then murder them. The dog head story was an invention to disguise their crime.’
Peter now pulled at the wart on his neck. ‘I see.’ He sighed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m going to write to the sheriff.’
Peter stood up and clasped his head in his hands. ‘What? You can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’
‘I told you to use your brains, Oswald! De Caburn is protected by the earl. And Cornwall is a priest.’
‘But I have witnesses.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘So I should just forget about it?’
‘De Caburn and Cornwall will be punished, Oswald.’
‘But not at my hands. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Let God deal with them.’
I raised my voice. ‘No. Alison and Matilda will receive earthly justice. I will make sure of it.’
Peter took a deep breath and went to argue back, but stopped himself. The awkward silence returned as Peter sat down again and resumed the tapping of his foot.
I thought about leaving, but then remembered my purpose in coming to the library. ‘So how did you make the flash and boom, Brother? Was it alchemy?’
Peter smiled weakly now. ‘Alchemy? I thought you were sceptical of such notions, Oswald.’ He stood up again. ‘Let me show you.’ He led me to the corner of the library where he lifted a blanket to reveal a pole of iron. It was as long as my arm and as thick as the trunk of a young apple tree. ‘It was a gift to me from a crusader. It comes from Arabia, I believe.’
‘Did you know it could make such a flare?’
‘He told me it would. But I’ve never used it before.’
I touched the cold, grey shaft of the weapon and tried to lift it. ‘It’s so heavy, Brother. How did you wield it?’
‘I propped it in the crook of a tree.’ He pointed to one end of the pole. ‘See. It’s hollow. I placed small stones into it at this end.’ He then pointed at a small slit drilled into the tube. ‘Then I lit a piece of rope here.’
‘But how would that cause the stones to shoot out with such force?’
He smiled again. ‘Ever the inquisitor, Oswald? There is another ingredient. It’s a black powder that I placed into the tube before the stones. The burning rope ignites this powder and causes the flare.’
‘And this powder made the soot and the smoke?’ He nodded. ‘Could you use it again?’ I asked, suddenly imagining how I might punish de Caburn and Cornwall, and gain justice for my sisters.
But it seemed Brother Peter had read my thoughts. He took the weapon away from me. ‘No. And I’m glad of it. The powder is the Devil’s dust, Oswald. I only had enough for one blast.’
‘Could you make some more?’
He flared his nostrils. ‘I’ve no idea what’s in it. And, even if I did, it would be a mistake. It’s an ill-fated material. I nearly killed you.’
He covered the metal pole with the blanket. ‘De Caburn will retaliate for this attack. He’s been shamed in front of his men.’
I nodded, knowing with morbid fatality that this was true. ‘So, what should we do?’
‘We should pray, Oswald. God will provide an answer.’
I sighed. ‘No, Brother. You know I don’t believe.’
He touched my hair and stroked it gently. ‘Please, Oswald. Take communion with me. If only to please an old man
.’ I looked up at his face. His eyes were red about the rims and his face thin and grey.
But he had saved my life and I loved him.
So, I followed Brother Peter to the chapel. I took communion with him and prayed. Barely two days later our prayers were answered, though not in the way we had hoped.
Chapter Sixteen
At first light a distant figure was seen walking towards Somershill. Piers had kept the night watch from the north-west tower, and on seeing the stranger emerge from the forest he ran into the great hall and bashed the copper cook pot, rousing the whole house.
Given the urgency of the noise, I was expecting to see a group of mounted knights from Versey Castle when I rushed to the window. But from the faint awkward image it seemed as if a cripple or leper were approaching the gate of the house. The solitary figure limped forward through the early morning mist, but not without determination and purpose. And there was something familiar in their gait.
It was Mother who noticed first. ‘Look. It’s Clemence.’ She held her hand to her mouth in dismay.
‘What! Where’s her horse?’ I said.
‘Perhaps Merrion threw her off?’
Even from this distance, I could see my sister was not wearing her riding gown, so I pulled on my boots and ran out to meet her with Mother keeping to my shadows as if we were about to confront a wild animal.
If Clemence were not a wild animal, then she was an injured one. As she came fully into focus we saw a face caked in blood. Her dress was muddy and creased, and her sleeves were torn away – exposing a trail of ugly bruises that marked their path up her arms. She looked as exhausted as a camp follower returning from battle.
I rushed to embrace her, but at my touch she became as rigid as a rock. ‘What happened?’ I released her quickly from my unwelcome hold.
Her voice was weak and hoarse. ‘I am sent to you from my husband.’
‘De Caburn did this?’
She nodded.
Mother crept out from behind me and took my sister’s limp hand. ‘Did you provoke him, Clemence?’
Clemence snatched her hand away. ‘No. I did not.’ She pointed at me. ‘He did!’
‘Your husband meant to kill me, Clemence. I didn’t imagine it would lead to this.’
I would have pressed my case further except Clemence was too weak for argument. She fell to the ground sobbing and would not be comforted by either Mother or myself. As we tried to lift her, we looked up to find Humbert pounding over from the house with the speed of a hen pheasant fleeing the hounds. He ran to Clemence and pushed us aside.
‘Take me inside,’ she said to him. ‘And be gentle.’
Humbert scooped Clemence up in his arms and carried her to her old bed in the ladies’ bedchamber, where Brother Peter administered a sleeping draught. When we were sure she was sedated, Mother sent Humbert away while we stripped Clemence of her dirtiest clothes and bathed her wounds in an ointment of rosemary and tar. Given the scratches and swelling about her body, it was clear she had been both assaulted and raped – though Mother and I did not speak of this openly.
We were about to leave her sleeping next to Mirabel, when I noticed Humbert in the shadows. He must have sneaked back into the bedchamber, ghost-like as a she-cat. I didn’t have the heart to remove him, so pretended not to have seen the boy.
We ate a late breakfast in the great hall without speaking. Brother Peter chewed methodically upon his rye bread, while Hector snuffled about under the table, scavenging for crumbs. Even Mother was silent.
Suddenly, the great hall reverberated with Clemence’s screaming. ‘Get this whore away from me!’
Mother dropped a spoon into her pottage and scowled. ‘Why must she shout so? This is not Cheapside market.’
‘We should be forgiving, Mother,’ I said, leaving the table to investigate.
Brother Peter wiped some pottage from his mouth and stood up to join me. ‘Your daughter has been harshly violated, my lady. Kindness is required.’
Mother muttered something under her breath as we left the room, but we didn’t wait to hear it repeated.
Opening the heavy door to the bedchamber we found Clemence holding Mirabel by the hair. Humbert stood between them, but his efforts to stop the fight were as ineffectual as a child with flapping hands trying to break up a pair of brawling dogs.
‘What is this whore doing in my room?’ said Clemence when she saw me. Her words were slurred by the swelling to her lip.
‘Let her go,’ I said.
But Clemence twisted Mirabel’s hair more tightly, tugging it hard enough to make Mirabel squeal. I pushed past Humbert and forced Clemence to release the girl. ‘Her name is Mirabel. And she’s not a whore.’
Clemence snorted. ‘I know who she is! Flaunting herself about Versey. In front of my husband.’
Mirabel sobbed. ‘I never did, my lady. I wanted him to leave me alone.’
‘Lies!’
I grasped Clemence with both hands. ‘Mirabel was also attacked by your husband. You should have sympathy for her.’
Clemence broke free of me and slumped back down onto her bed. The energy of the fight had suddenly exhausted her, and tears began to stain her face. ‘Is that why you tried to kill my husband, little brother? To save this whore?’
‘I came across de Caburn and Cornwall in the forest,’ I told her. ‘They were attacking Mirabel. She was not the first of their victims.’
I sat down next to Clemence and stroked her forehead. She was hot, and the sweat ran greasily through her long black hair. ‘Was it de Caburn alone who did this to you?’ I asked her softly.
‘It was just him,’ she whispered to me. ‘He would have killed me, but . . .’ she almost smirked, ‘he made sure to leave me the strength to return.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
She opened her eyes and grabbed my wrist. ‘What good is being sorry, Oswald? You must avenge me.’
Brother Peter interrupted. ‘God forgive you, Lady Clemence. Do not incite your own brother to sin.’
Clemence turned to Peter, her face red and sneering. ‘I would kill de Caburn myself, if I were able. And God would be pleased about it.’
‘That is blasphemous talk.’
She burst out laughing, but it sounded as harsh as the call of a crow. ‘You won’t be so principled when he comes for you, priest. You and your precious Oswald.’
Peter remained calm. ‘And Lord Versey plans to do so?’
‘Of course he does. You burnt him. He won’t let it pass.’
‘What does he intend to do?’
‘Don’t ask me. How would I know his plans?’
She gripped her stomach and rocked to ease her pain. Peter then poured some more of the sleeping draught and attempted to feed her, but she pushed him away. ‘No more of that poison,’ she told him.
‘It would help you to sleep, madam.’
‘I don’t care to sleep!’ She was becoming angry again. Her teeth were gritted.
‘I can dilute its strength if it would please you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I must stay awake. Remain vigilant.’
I tried to take her hand, but she waved me away. ‘You’re safe now, Clemence.’
Peter fared no better when he tried to gauge her heat by feeling her forehead. She pushed him away with surprising vigour. ‘I should inspect your wounds, my lady,’ he said.
Now she sat up straight. ‘No! Keep away from me.’
‘But I’m an infirmarer. I’ve treated a woman intimately before. It really would be—’
‘You’re not treating me intimately, priest!’ She shrank back into the bed and pulled the sheets about her.
‘But you’re running a fever. And your wounds may become corrupted.’ Peter went to place a comforting hand upon Clemence’s shoulder, but this time Humbert pressed himself in the way.
Seeing this approach was unlikely to succeed, I drew Peter back to a private corner of the room, where the others could not hear us. ‘I think we should allow Clem
ence to rest, Brother. Let’s approach her again tomorrow when she’s calmer.’
Peter shook his head. ‘Clemence must be treated today. She’s been wounded internally.’
‘But she won’t allow you to treat her, Brother.’
‘Then she risks a stronger fever. Perhaps worse.’
‘Why don’t we fully sedate her?’
He sighed. ‘No. She resists too vigorously. And I will not tend to her wounds without her agreement. It would be a further affront to her dignity.’
‘Then what are we to do?’
Peter looked about the room as if the tapestries or the bed curtains might answer his question. A flock of small birds landed at the window, pecking at the cobwebs on the external glass for flies and spiders.
Peter took a metal flask from the recesses of his tunic. ‘Would you care for some?’ I declined the offer since the wine had been warmed against the bare skin of Peter’s belly and the thought of it was unpleasant.
He took his customary swig and then wiped the red dregs from around his mouth. ‘Clemence must go to the convent of St Margaret. Sister Constance treats women who have suffered at a man’s hands. She has special remedies. Clemence will allow another woman to help her.’
‘Sister Constance is still alive?’
‘I believe so.’
‘But Clemence can’t just arrive, unannounced.’
‘I’ll take her and make all the necessary introductions. I can ensure Clemence receives the correct care. ‘
‘Is Clemence ready to travel?’
‘We’ll take her in the cart. I can give her a draught to numb the pain. If she knows the reason for taking the potion, then she might be more agreeable.’
‘Why are you being so accommodating?’ I whispered. ‘You despise Clemence.’
He touched my shoulder for a moment. ‘She has goodness in her heart . . . somewhere, Oswald.’ He took a last gulp of the wine and placed it back into its hiding hole. ‘I’ll get the cart ready.’
‘You must be careful not to travel near de Caburn’s land. St Margaret’s is close to Versey.’