by S. D. Sykes
I suppressed a smile, thinking of the sacred bone that Mother kept in a silver casket next to her bed. At best it was a fragment of a peasant’s skeleton, but it could even have started life as part of a sheep or a cow. I knew the tricks the relic mongers played. Boiling up the carcasses to remove all vestiges of flesh. Dusting the bones with chalk and wood ash. But Mother would not hear of her own precious relic coming from such deceit. She prayed with it nightly – and would not have been at all pleased to hear it had been grated into a pie!
I looked down at Mirabel’s beautiful face and wondered at her gentle compassion, but also her foolishness. ‘Pass the pie up. Then you must leave.’
She held the pastry-covered dish to me, but there was no chance something so large would fit through the bars. So she broke pieces off and squeezed them one by one between the iron poles.
‘I can stay with you for a little while, sire. Are you lonely?’
‘Yes, Mirabel. I am.’
‘Are you frightened?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I’m sure justice will be served tomorrow.’
‘St Peter will save you. With the dust of his bones.’
She put her hand through the bar, and I held it. It was small but strong – not the limp paw of a gentlewoman. I kissed the rough skin of her fingers, and she agreed to go.
After watching her melt into the shadows, I ate the pie, which tasted every bit as unpleasant as it had promised to be.
Chapter Eighteen
The galloping of hooves is seldom anything but the announcement of trouble. So, on hearing horses the next morning I was quick to jump out of bed and speak to my guard. He was cleaning dried mud from his boots and brushing dust from his over-kirtle. His face was shaven, and his hair was combed for the first time in days.
‘Who’s that arriving?’ I asked.
He didn’t look up at me. ‘The earl and his knights. They are here for your trial.’
‘Or to see me hang. So the earl can take my land.’
The squire looked up at me soberly. ‘The earl can be a just man. Unless you provoke him.’ Then he smiled to himself, and added under his breath, ‘Just make sure you laugh at his jokes.’
I slumped back down onto the bed. Could any man who befriended de Caburn be described as a just man? I doubted so.
It was the day of my trial, but if I had hoped for a bowl of water to wash my face and a blade to shave my chin I was unlucky – for I left my cell feeling as sticky as a ripe damson waiting to be devoured by wasps.
Silent, gawping faces watched my progress through the village towards the place of my trial, which was to be the great hall at Somershill. I expected no less, since it was the usual location for the Hundreds Court, but it felt strange and jarring to be tried under my own tiles. Perversely, it almost made me want to laugh.
As we neared St Giles I noticed old Eleanor at the road-side – the woman who had once been Mother’s lady’s maid. Despite her dropsy, she had struggled out of her cottage to watch me pass.
‘God bless you, sire,’ she said, thrusting a bunch of St John’s Wort into my hands. ‘Wasn’t your fault them dog heads corrupted your soul. It was the milk.’
‘Milk?’
‘Your nursemaid’s, sire. Adeline Starvecrow’s.’ The guards pulled me away. ‘Rub the leaves, sire. The Chase-Devil plant will ward off the demons.’
I tried to pass the small posy of yellow flowers back to Eleanor, but she wouldn’t take it. ‘The Devil stinks of the sewers. This will sweeten your nose.’ I should have dropped this foolish talisman into the mud, but somehow it found its way into my pocket.
The disgrace of being led through my own gate under armed guard was shaming, and I looked to my feet to avoid meeting the eyes of Gilbert or Ada. Fortunately there was no sign of Mother or Mirabel. I then was dumped in the cellar without a candle, and left to contemplate my fate, while the hall was made ready for the trial.
In the velvet of the black, something moved. I was disorientated and called out, but nobody answered. The room smelt mustier than ever and, although my eyes were adjusting to the lack of light, the barrels and sacks seemed instead to be forms waiting to advance upon me.
Something moved again. I felt a breath upon my face. And then suddenly I saw faces in the shadows. At first I thought it was an old woman. Then a girl. Their cadaverous features materialised and then disappeared within moments. A rushed desire came upon me. I would scream out. Demand to be released. For the first time in many weeks I felt the overwhelming need to shit.
The moment passed. I closed my eyes, took long and deep breaths and felt my way across the room to Brother Peter’s secret supply of Madeira. Sure enough a bottle was hidden in a familiar place. Sitting down upon the step near the door, I pulled the cork from the neck and downed the warm and slightly vinegary drink. There were no ghouls or ghosts in this room. The darkness was nothing but a cruel kindling – stirring up my fear of the gallows and the injustice of being accused of crimes I had not committed.
Something brushed against my leg, but this time I was not startled. It was only the kitchen cat, stalking the cellar for mice and rats. I stroked her soft coat as she arched her back and purred, and somewhere on the other side of the heavy wooden door came the booming voice of a man. It could only be the earl.
Earl Stephen, in common with many noblemen, rarely spoke English. Preferring French, his speech was tainted with long vowels and an awkward emphasis on the second syllable of most words. In order to make himself understood in English, a language he despised, he believed it was necessary to shout. Perhaps he thought all ordinary Englishmen deaf or stupid, because each sentence, even the most modest of requests, was delivered with the boom of a battle cry.
‘Where is the priest?’ I heard him say. The reply was impossible to hear, being merely a sequence of low-sounding murmurs. ‘What is his name? Con Wool?’ Once again the reply was too indistinct to hear. ‘Oui. Lui. Cornwall. Don’t sit him next to me. And where is that femme? That woman?’ The muffled voice was flustered and appeared to be listing women, all of whose names were met with a petulant ‘non, non, non!’ The earl raised his voice another notch. ‘She is a cadavre. A skeleton.’ Another pause. The earl’s tone relaxed. ‘Oui, oui. Madame de Lacy. She must not attend the trial. Elle parle trop. She talks too much!’
The conversation now faded, though I could still hear Earl Stephen demanding to be served ‘vin’ and ‘viande’. Moments later Gilbert burst into the cellar and knocked me from the step.
Flustered by his mistake, he picked me up and dusted me down. ‘I’m so sorry, sire. I’ve to fetch wine. Anybody would think this is some sort of feast.’ He then muttered some obscene remarks about the French, which I will not commit to this account.
‘Is the judge here yet?’ I asked, as Gilbert rooted around behind me, rocking each barrel in turn.
Gilbert stood up straight and sighed. ‘Yes, sire. He’s wanting ale.’
‘I’m not guilty.’
‘I know that. I’ve told them you never left Somershill when Lord Versey was murdered. But they don’t believe me.’
‘Where’s Brother Peter?’
‘I haven’t seen him, sire. But you know how he comes and goes. Never sure where he’s going to appear.’
‘And my mother?’
‘She’s been banished to the solar, with all the other women.’ He let a smile escape. ‘The earl doesn’t like all their talking.’
He picked the barrel up awkwardly and shuffled past me. ‘I’d better go. They’re wanting this wine as well. But I’ve prayed for you. The Lord looks kindly upon the innocent.’ I thanked him for his words. I think he meant them.
The door slammed shut behind him and the chamber returned to darkness. Sitting back down again on the step a cold draught hit the back of my throat and the stone chilled my backside. The walls were damp in this underground chamber, and an ill-favoured miasma filled the room with its dank odours and cold bile. I took the St John’s Wort from my pocket and rub
bed it in my hands. The soft leaves gave off an oil – the same oil Brother Peter and I used in the infirmary to treat the bed sores of the oldest monks.
I sighed. Where was Brother Peter? What of his promise to save me?
In the late morning two squires led me from the cellar into the great hall to be tried in front of a jury of free men. But seeing their twelve faces was no consolation, for they were not the local men I had expected – instead my jury was to be a collection of the earl’s knights and squires. Behind them a rabble of villagers vied for position, pushing and shoving each other in a desire to watch this mockery from the closest possible point.
Featherby loomed over his fellow spectators like a gallows tree, while behind him stood my tenant Wallwork and his buxom daughter Abigail. She did not look so keen to marry me now. By her mocking smile she seemed to be enjoying my discomfort, after the shame I had caused her at our last meeting. No doubt she saw this as a fitting repayment.
Three men sat at my dinner table. In the middle was the royal judge – a small and shrivelled man who didn’t seem to fit into his own clothing. The scant hair he possessed was red, and his face was flushed with freckles. I had never met this man before, but from his appearance I knew him to be Deaf Ellingham – the judge famed for sending the wrong man to hang after mishearing his name.
Earl Stephen sat to Ellingham’s right in a cape edged in ermine and a parti-coloured doublet of green and blue, as if it might be mid-winter. He was a tall man with the colouring of a Moor. His long arms spread out like the limbs of a grasshopper, resting indolently across the table as only a man of his standing feels able to do. To Ellingham’s left was Cornwall, with his cloak spread wide revealing a glimpse of red satin. His hands lay upon the buckskin coat of a Bible – a manuscript that should not have left St Giles.
I pointed to the Bible. ‘It’s a pity you cannot read the words inside, Father John.’
‘What was that?’ said Ellingham. He cupped a freckled hand to his ear.
I cleared my throat. There was little point in being reserved. ‘I was wondering why Father John has the Bible with him? When he knows so little Latin.’
An amused smile spread across the earl’s face. He leant forward to stare at Cornwall, cocking his head to listen for an answer.
Cornwall reddened. ‘Must I answer such a foolish question?’ He spoke to Ellingham in a sideways whisper, but the judge merely wrinkled his nose to suggest he had not understood.
The earl answered for him. ‘Bien sûr. Père Jean. Answer. Please.’
Cornwall bowed his head elegantly to the earl, since he now had no option but to reply to my question, no matter how foolish he felt it to be. ‘I’m a man of God, my lord. I always have the Bible with me.’
‘But can you read Latin?’ asked the earl. ‘We want to know.’ There was a moment’s silence, and then the earl slapped the table and began to laugh. There was neither a witty pun nor clever insinuation in this comment. In fact there was nothing to find amusing in it at all, but this didn’t stop the jury of leather-skinned knights and pimply squires quickly falling about in hysterics. Even Cornwall, who was the butt of this supposed joke, attempted to laugh, though his face was now blotched and sweating.
‘I am only teasing you, Père Jean,’ said the earl when the laughter had died down. ‘You are not on trial.’ He waved his arm at Ellingham as if he was shooing off a flock of geese. ‘Alors. Please. Continue. This is taking too long.’ He then yawned like a baby.
Ellingham appeared to understand, and quickly straightened his papers. The volume of the earl’s voice clearly had some advantages, if only to communicate effectively with a man who was hard of hearing.
Ellingham looked up at me. ‘Lord Somershill. Oswald de Lacy. You are accused of the murders of Alison Starvecrow, Matilda Starvecrow and Walter de Caburn, Lord Versey. How do you plead?’
‘I’m not guilty,’ I said with all the confidence I could muster. ‘And I am outraged to be standing here. I don’t—’ My attention was suddenly drawn to the squint, from where Mother waved at me as enthusiastically as if she had just seen me take my first communion. The earl turned to see what had caught my attention.
‘Your mother, eh?’ he asked, pointing up to the small window where Mother’s face and breasts were now squashed against the glass. ‘Madame de Lacy?’
‘Yes, my lord. I’m afraid it is.’
Earl Stephen once again slapped the table and dissolved into laughter. ‘He is afraid!’ His followers responded as before, each striving to guffaw more loudly than the next. ‘J’ai peur aussi!’ Tears stained his cheeks and ran into the black hair of his beard. ‘Votre mère est une truie ancienne!’
He had called my mother an old sow, and I might have challenged him, except I didn’t want to ruin his good humour.
‘My lord,’ said Ellingham after an acceptable pause, ‘should we continue?’ The earl made another of his goose-shooing gestures, and the trial resumed.
Ellingham peered across at me and, given the cloudy film across his pale blue eyes, I began to wonder if he were not also blind as well as deaf. The bright light of the room seemed to affect his vision, and he squinted. ‘We will commence with the murder of Lord Versey.’ An expectant hush descended. ‘Oswald de Lacy. You are accused of luring Lord Versey to the Convent of St Margaret to visit your sister Clemence. As he travelled there, you ambushed and murdered him.’
‘I was here at Somershill at the time of his death. I have witnesses.’
Cornwall broke in. ‘Men who will say whatever he tells them to. Their testimony should be discounted.’
‘What?’ Ellingham cupped his hand to his ear again.
I spoke loudly to prevent Cornwall’s answer being heard. ‘I didn’t lure de Caburn to the convent. You have no evidence to prove such a theory.’
‘I saw the hand-written note,’ said Cornwall, ‘from your sister.’
‘Where is it then? Who is to say it even existed?’
Cornwall folded his arms. ‘I say it existed. And it smelt of evil.’
‘You smelt the letter?’ I hoped my exaggerated astonishment might ignite the earl’s strange sense of humour, but he seemed more interested in picking his fingernails. I persevered. ‘Did you smell the letter since you were unable to read it?’ This, at least, raised a smile at the corner of the earl’s lips, but still he did not look up.
Cornwall, always conscious of the earl’s mood, saw his opportunity to pounce. ‘It is my contention that Lord Somershill committed this murder for personal gain,’ he said grandly. ‘With his sister as Lord Versey’s widow, he would hope to gain control of the Versey estate.’
Cornwall then flared his cloak to reveal a flash of red satin. What vanity to wear such expensive cloth, when it was usually the preserve of nobility. His mistake was not lost on the earl. He regarded the shine of Cornwall’s gown and suddenly frowned.
Now was my chance. ‘I think it more likely that you murdered Lord Versey, John of Cornwall. Your motive was fear.’
Cornwall clasped his hands upon the Bible. ‘What nonsense is this now?’
Deaf Ellingham cupped both ears this time. He was struggling to follow any of the proceedings. ‘What did de Lacy say?’ he asked Cornwall.
Cornwall raised his voice to the boom of a sermon. ‘Lord Somershill would debase himself so low as to accuse a man of God of these crimes. Crimes he himself committed. It proves his guilt.’ Nods and murmurs from the crowd seemed to support his claim, but still Earl Stephen said nothing.
Only as the hubbub died down did the earl divert his interest from his fingernails and speak. ‘Why do you say this, de Lacy?’ He pointed at Cornwall. ‘Why do you say Père Jean is guilty?’
I thought back to Brother Peter’s warning about implicating de Caburn in these crimes – but what choice did I have? ‘I accuse John of Cornwall of murdering Lord Versey,’ I said.
The earl shrugged. ‘Yes. But pourquoi? Why?’
‘Lord Versey and Father John liked to rape
and murder young girls.’ Gasps were audible amongst the crowd.
‘C’est vrai?’
‘Yes. It’s true, my lord. I only discovered their guilt recently.’
But the earl did not seem convinced. ‘But why did Père Jean kill Versey?’
‘With their crimes exposed, they either argued. Or more likely, Father John wanted to silence de Caburn.’
Cornwall threw up his hands. ‘Listen to this false testimony. The boy would even accuse Lord Versey! Regard the evil of the boy.’
‘Do you deny I caught you and de Caburn in the forest with a girl?’ I asked the priest.
Cornwall turned to the earl. ‘My lord. We should not countenance such defamation and slander. Lord Versey was your friend.’ The earl rocked his head from side to side at this suggestion and then looked absently into the distance.
Cornwall was becoming irritated. ‘The boy speaks against Lord Versey, my lord. You should not allow this. What say you?’ The earl suddenly focussed and leant forward to stare at Cornwall, looking down the bridge of his nose with the full force of aristocratic condescension. An awkward hush fell upon the hall.
Cornwall pulled his cloak about him, shrinking into his seat and hiding the red of his satin lining. ‘He has no evidence for this accusation, my lord,’ he whimpered. ‘De Lacy’s attempting to trick you.’ Still the earl said nothing. His lips puckered into a grimace.
I broke the silence. ‘John of Cornwall. Do you deny I caught you and Lord Versey in the forest with a girl? You were about to rape her.’
‘That is a lie.’
‘Just as you and Lord Versey had already murdered the Starvecrow sisters?’
‘Another lie!’
The earl now gazed at me and it was my turn to feel the burn of his sneer. ‘I managed to save the girl, my lord. But otherwise she would have met the same fate as the Starvecrows.’ I felt blood rush into my face. ‘It should be John of Cornwall on trial. Not I.’
The earl heaved a sigh and stretched out his long grasshopper arms. ‘Extraordinaire.’