by S. D. Sykes
‘My lord,’ said Cornwall. Beads of sweat bubbled across his forehead like blisters. ‘I am a man of God. These are blatant lies and—’
I interrupted before he regained his momentum. ‘The girl will bear witness to Cornwall’s crime. I can call her to the court.’
The earl sat up at my words. ‘She is here? Ici?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Alors. Je l’écoute. I will listen to her. Bring her into the—’
But his words were drowned by a sudden scuffle.
Through the mêlée I heard Brother Peter’s voice. He was shouting. ‘Let me speak. I have important information. I must be heard!’ He shoved his way through the crowd, but I have no idea how he had gained entry to the hall, since the main door was locked, and I had not seen his face before this moment.
Peter bowed as deeply to the earl as his back would allow. His voice was breathless and agitated. ‘My lord. I beg your indulgence, but I have news that will shed a new light upon this trial.’
The earl cocked his head to one side and stroked his beard. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Brother Peter, my lord. Of the Benedictine order. I am the infirmarer at Kintham Abbey.’
The earl turned to his entourage with a smile. ‘A saw bones, eh?’ The men began to snigger. ‘Are you unwell, Père Saw-Bones? You sweat like a cochon. A pig.’
Peter ignored the gibe. ‘My lord. I had the honour of treating your son two years ago.’
‘Lequel? Gregory ou Hugh?’
‘It was Gregory, my lord. He broke his arm hunting at Versey. I re-set the bone.’
The earl’s face dissolved into a broad smile. ‘Ah oui! I remember you. Vous l’avez bien fait. You did it well.’
Peter bowed again. ‘I trust Gregory’s arm is recovered. And that he may use it well again?’
The earl laughed out loud. ‘Oui. Bien sûr. His arm is recovered. And he uses it very well.’ He made an obscene gesture to indicate how Gregory was exercising his re-set arm and looked back to the jury for the obligatory roar of laughter.
Ellingham waited for the comedy to subside, with a face not able entirely to disguise his weariness. ‘Why have you disturbed the court, Brother Paul?’ he asked. ‘This is a murder trial. Not a meeting of old friends.’
‘I have discovered the true murderer of Lord Versey and the Starvecrow sisters.’
Ellingham cupped his ear. ‘What?’
Brother Peter shouted, ‘I have discovered the true murderer. You must release Lord Somershill.’
Ellingham screwed up his face and waved a bony finger. ‘You are wasting our time, Brother Paul. Please stand aside and let the trial continue.’
‘But if you continue, you risk—’
‘Stand aside, Brother Paul!’ said Ellingham. ‘I will not tell you again.’
Peter looked to the earl, but his new friend was once again picking his fingernail and didn’t care to respond. ‘But the court should hear what I have to say!’ Still no reaction from the earl. ‘You have arrested an innocent man. And my name is Brother Peter!’
Ellingham beckoned to the guards to take Peter away, but as the two men went to seize him, Peter managed to shake them off. ‘You must listen to me.’
‘Arrest the man.’
‘But I have discovered the dog-headed beast!’
The court became instantly silent. My heart missed a beat. ‘What are you doing, Brother?’ I tried to whisper to him. ‘This won’t help.’
But Peter ignored me. ‘Give me some men, my lord. I’ll lead them to the beast.’
‘Stand aside,’ repeated Ellingham. This time the two guards succeeded in taking Peter, but relaxed their grip, when the earl pulled the judge towards him. ‘Non! Arrêtez! I want to hear this man.’ He then bellowed in Ellingham’s ear. ‘Frère Pierre must speak!’
The judge held the side of his head and cried out in pain.
Peter bowed to the earl. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Alors. Speak.’
‘I came here to inform the court of my discovery. The Cynocephalus. The dog-headed beast.’
The earl snorted. ‘Une bête?’
‘It is responsible for the murder of Lord Versey and the Starvecrow sisters.’
‘A dog head? Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘It is a sinful creature that has crept here from the east, bringing plague and pestilence to our lands. It has the head of a wolf and the body of a man.’
The earl pulled his chin into his neck and frowned. ‘I don’t know it.’
‘Ask Father John, my lord,’ said Peter. ‘He was the first to identify the mark of the dog-headed beast on the Starvecrow sisters. He brought the creature to our attention and knows of its guilt.’
The earl leant forward to regard Cornwall. ‘C’est vrai?’ Cornwall looked blank at his words, not understanding even the most simple of French. ‘Is that true? Père Jean?’ said the earl, now becoming irritated again.
Cornwall remained silent for a few moments as the wheels and pulleys of his mind worked quickly. He would appear a fool for accusing me of the murders, when he had previously cited dog heads. On the other hand, he risked being called a murderer himself – a charge I was having some success in promoting.
Cornwall opened his cloak tentatively. ‘I am heartened to hear Brother Peter admit to the existence of such beasts, my lord. Both he and Lord Somershill have previously denied them.’
Peter put his hands together and bowed most obsequiously to Cornwall. ‘I now regret my former intransigence. I most humbly beg your forgiveness, Father John.’ I tried to get Peter’s attention, but he steadfastly ignored me.
The earl beckoned his knights from the jury bench. They spoke softly in French, but since the earl’s whispers were at the level of ordinary conversation, his words were hardly a secret. Anybody with the rudiments of his language could understand that he was asking his knights if they had ever heard of such creatures. There was a general shrugging and questioning of the story until one of his party claimed to have sighted a similar beast, in the forests of Gascony.
The earl then waved the men away and pointed to Brother Peter. ‘You know where this dog head is?’ Peter nodded. ‘You can lead some men there?’
‘Of course.’
‘Allez. Go quickly. Bring the creature back. I want to see it.’
My heart began to drum against my chest. Peter’s deception would be too easy to expose. I wished he had left me to pursue Cornwall rather than concoct this preposterous story.
Peter stepped forward nervously. ‘I would be pleased to capture the dog-headed beast, my lord. But I shall need the assistance of your knights and squires.’ The earl now looked uneasy. Perhaps this was Peter’s plan? To draw the best men away from Somershill, so I might escape?
‘You may take my squires,’ said the earl. ‘My knights stay here.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘And take Père Jean.’
Brother Peter froze. ‘That’s not necessary, my lord. I have enough experience of dealing with devilry. I’m sure Father John would rather stay here.’ Cornwall felt his cloak nervously, unsure whether it was a good idea to be part of this search party or not.
‘Non. Take him!’ The earl turned to his men. ‘He can smell out the evil, eh?’ The joke was as thin as when I had cracked it – but on this occasion it was met with great guffaws.
Then, like a child suddenly bored of a game, the earl signalled that he wanted to clear the hall. The jury headed for the tavern, Deaf Ellingham collected his papers, and the villagers filed out. Only I remained in custody. Taken back to the gaol house, from where I watched the search party leave on horseback.
The afternoon was dissolving into evening, and a low haze hung over the meadow outside my small window. I could almost smell autumn, and had I been a boy who believed in portents and prophecy, I would have taken its promise of dampness and decay as a bad omen.
I did not understand what Brother Peter was planning, and could no
t see how this hunt for dog heads would help me.
I felt damned.
Chapter Nineteen
The night was heavy and still, and the moon was bright. I lay awake watching the shadows on the wall again and listening to the snoring of the squire who had been left behind to guard me. I wondered if I would be hanged tomorrow, when, inevitably, they would not find a dog-headed beast. I was both tired and alert, so that every time I closed my eyes all I could see were flashing images. The more I tried to dislodge them, the faster they blinked and burnt, until they spun into a skewer of pain that bored relentlessly into the back of my eye.
As the sun began to rise, sleep finally found me, but it was only for the briefest of time. I was woken up by the sound of voices. Excited voices. Urgent, frightened voices. And there was a smell too. It was the true smell of autumn. Of wet wood smoking in the hearth.
I rattled the door. ‘What’s going on?’ I shouted through the cracks.
The door was unexpectedly opened. ‘They’ve found the dog head,’ said the squire. His face was red and animated. ‘You’re free to go, sire.’ He bowed to me. ‘The earl says so.’
‘What do you mean? What dog head?’
‘They found it hiding, sire. They’re going to burn it.’
I tried to leave, but found my progress blocked by the earl himself. His long and finely dressed arm crossed the doorway like the rail of a gate.
‘My lord,’ I said and bowed my head.
‘You have heard the news, eh? A dog head.’ He laughed. ‘I have never seen such a creature. Un visage comme un loup. A wolf. You want to watch it burn?’
‘I don’t know what you’re burning, my lord. But it cannot be a dog head. They do not exist.’
I went to push past him, but the earl pressed a hand against my chest. ‘Non, non. It is a monster, de Lacy. Un diable. I say it must burn!’
‘But—’
He lowered his chin and raised his thick eyebrows. ‘This is my verdict, eh?’
‘But I think that—’
He clapped his hands. ‘Enough!’
‘May I go then, my lord?’
‘Bientôt. Soon.’
He sniffed the air of the cell in disgust, waving to the squire for his bag of fragrant herbs. He pressed the bag firmly to his nose and then beckoned for me to follow him outside.
As I left the cell he put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Stay a while, de Lacy. We are friends now, eh? I want to talk to you.’
‘But I must—’
‘I have something for you, de Lacy. Un cadeau.’
‘A gift?’
‘Oui. Of course!’ He said this as if we often exchanged presents. I felt sweat begin to form in my armpits. ‘I have decided you will have Versey. As well as Somershill.’ He punched my side in jest, but his long limbs encased me like the legs of a spider, and his breath smelt sour.
‘But de Caburn has daughters,’ I said. ‘And my sister Clemence is his widow. Surely they will inherit the estate?’
He snorted. ‘Non, non. Send her to a nunnery. I will not discuss my business with women. We are voisins now. Neighbours. We share interests.’ He leant forward and feigned a whisper. ‘De Caburn was a fool. Non?’
‘A fool?’
‘Oui. Il riait toujours.’
I must have frowned, giving the earl to believe I didn’t understand his French.
‘He was always laughing, de Lacy.’ His face contorted. ‘But why? It is very foolish.’
‘But I thought you and de Caburn were friends?’
He squeezed me tightly. ‘Jamais! Non. And I am happy the Devil has taken him. He didn’t pay his dues. Vous comprenez?’
I understood perfectly. I was younger, less experienced, and more easily bullied than de Caburn. And the earl had belatedly realised that he could exact more money from me.
I wriggled free. ‘I must go, my lord.’
‘Oui. Allez. Go to the burning,’ he said, slapping me roundly across the back. ‘But I will return in a month. We will talk more then.’ As I sped away, he shouted to me, ‘Remember, de Lacy. Vous êtes Seigneur Versey. I said so.’
I ran towards the smoke that rose into a pale sky. A noisy crowd was already gathered about its flames, and pushing my way through their backs I soon came up against two of the earl’s squires as they dragged an angry and struggling woman away from the fire. It was Joan Bath.
She screamed with unhallowed fury. Her face was stained with tears and mud. ‘Stop this!’ she bawled. But the crowd about her only hissed and jeered. A small boy kicked at her dress, to which she responded by spitting.
And then she caught sight of my face and managed to pull herself free of the guards, clutching at my legs with the desperation of a child being separated from his mother. ‘Stop them, sire.’ She choked. ‘Please. Stop them! It’s not a dog head they are burning.’
I knelt down to help her, but she was soon peeled away from me by the heavy hands of the squires, and once again hauled off into the sea of people.
‘The priest betrayed me!’ she screamed, before disappearing into the uproar. ‘It’s he who should burn!’
Now I pushed my way to the flames themselves. ‘Let me through,’ I shouted.
At first those about me didn’t respond, only turning to look at me when I grabbed at their tunics. Perhaps they had forgotten who I was? A young girl asked me to lift her so she might see the sinner die. A ragged boy tried to sell me a faggot of fat for half a penny.
And then a wail cut through the air. It was thin and piteous and came from within the pyre itself – but pushing my way through to the flames, I found no curling and blackened body tied to a stake. No sooty chains or iron hoops. Only the carcass of a bull, with the fire now licking at the brown and white hair of its coat.
The beast had not been skinned and its mouth was jammed open with a thick metal skewer. I recognised the animal immediately. It was my best Simmental bull, Goliath. But why were they burning such a valuable beast? I couldn’t understand. Goliath had sired most of our dairy herd. We could not afford such waste. And then a strange thing caught my eye. Beneath the creature’s distended belly something seemed to move about like a rat inside a sack of barley. I tried to look closer, but the heat repelled me.
Then the plaintive call came again. A groan, followed by the high-pitched scream of a vixen. I grasped the man standing next to me. It was my reeve, Featherby. ‘How can the beast be calling?’ I said. ‘Is it still alive?’
He regarded me curiously. ‘No, sire. I slaughtered him myself.’
‘Then what’s making such a noise?’
‘The dog-headed beast. It calls through the neck of the bull.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve sewn it inside, sire.’
I felt nauseated. ‘Whilst still living?’
He nodded. ‘We hoped to hear it beg for forgiveness as it burns. But it only screams and screeches like a devil.’
I grabbed the fool. ‘Put the fire out. Now!’
‘But sire? The sacrifice of our best bull will cleanse the demon of sin.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘The priest.’
These words might once have paralysed me, but no longer. ‘Fetch water,’ I shouted to those about me. Nobody moved. Instead they stared at the blaze – transfixed by this spectacle of burning flesh. The ragged boy launched his faggot of fat into the fire, boasting that he was helping to cook the sinner’s heart.
I shook him by the coarse wool of his tunic. ‘Water!’ I said. ‘I command it!’ The boy backed away from me and disappeared into the crowd, only to return sheepishly with a bucket of dirty water. And then, after watching me stamp upon the flames, some others began to bring water from the dew pond. At first it was but one or two of them, but soon their numbers grew and suddenly the group became as frenzied about extinguishing the fire as they had been about fanning it.
When the heat had died down to a steam, we dragged the sweating hulk of the bull over the embers of the fire t
o let it cool upon the muddy grass. As we threw yet more water over its rump, their faces drew in about me, both sickened and thrilled as I cut through the stitches in the beast’s belly to release its doomed stuffing. It was a trussed and writhing thing that rolled out in front of us – bound as tightly as a smoked sausage.
As I loosened the ropes, the blackened form shuddered and coughed, before gasping for one last mouthful of air. Then, as Death claimed his prize, I held the wilting body in my arms and looked about me at these persecutors. I wanted them to see what they had done. But they could only recoil and avert their eyes in shame.
And what shame.
For the creature I cradled was neither a dog-headed beast, nor a devil that required to be purged of sin. It was a boy. Leofwin. His face distorted – not by a misfortune of nature, but by terror and pain.
I ran into the trees and wept, and when my tears were finally exhausted, I let my body shake and convulse until it settled to a weak tremble. And then I returned to the remains of the fire, afraid the boy’s body would be further despoiled in my absence.
Now I found a new crowd gathered – with John of Cornwall at its core. Kneeling before Leofwin’s limp and lifeless body, Cornwall feigned the seizures of an exorcist in the midst of an incantation. Struggling to his feet, he then turned to the crowd with his hands raised, as if he were Christ himself.
My fury was now complete. Snatching the pig herder’s staff from Gower, I thrust the crowd aside and leapt forward to strike Cornwall soundly across his back. ‘Get away from him. There is no devil here but you!’
Cornwall tried to protect himself by pulling his cloak about his head – but fine velvet would not save him from my rage. He called for the others to help, but they flinched away, afraid to be the next recipient of the wooden staff across their guilty bodies.
A madness came upon me. I will admit it. Cornwall was a liar, a rapist, and a murderer. He deserved to die. I struck him about the head until I found that I enjoyed hurting him. The crack of wood against his skull satisfied me. His calls of pain pleased me. The blood that surged from his mouth thrilled me. I felt elated, free of censure and restraint. I wanted him to die. I wanted to kill him myself.