by S. D. Sykes
‘We’ll see about this,’ said Clemence, as she strode away towards the house. ‘You will not have everything.’
Chapter Twenty-One
My day did not improve. Following my argument with Clemence, I decided to break the news of my intended marriage to Mother. It had to be done quickly, since I had made a commitment to break with tradition and hold the ceremony only the day after tomorrow.
I was hardly expecting Mother to be pleased at my news, but I had not expected such a visceral reaction. There were no threats or insults regarding my choice of wife. In fact, Mother was unable to form any words at all, since her response to my news was to vomit. The blood left her face and she became so grey and ashen that Ada and Gilbert had to carry her to bed, from where she could still be heard heaving for the next half an hour.
Absenting myself from Mother’s bedside, I walked to the fields to see how the harvest was progressing. When I reached the demesne I met an old woman struggling to gather the cut barley into sheaves. Her face was drawn and tired, and she repeatedly stretched, clutching her back and groaning before starting her work again. Her skinny dog tried to nip at my ankles until I kicked him away.
Featherby ran over to greet me from the other side of the field. ‘This woman is too old to be working in the field,’ I told him.
He shrugged a little. ‘But there’s nobody else to do it, sire. And she works steadily enough, if we allow the dog in the field.’ The dog barked as if chastising us for allowing his mistress to be worked into her grave.
‘She looks half-dead, Featherby. Couldn’t she be doing something a little less arduous? Some weaving maybe?’
He screwed up his face. ‘Old Beatrice? No, sire. I wouldn’t let her loose on the spinning. She distracts the other women with her gossip. And her hands are like twisted willow. She can hardly hold a carding comb.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Forty-five, sire.’
I turned around to look at Beatrice, and she curtsied to me with a toothless grin. She was thirteen years younger than my own mother, but looked as wrinkled and ugly as a baby bird.
I would take Mirabel away from this life, and was pleased of it.
‘Make sure the water carrier sees to this woman first, when he comes into the field,’ I told Featherby. ‘And don’t let her feed it all to her dog.’
‘As you like, sire,’ he said, beginning to loom.
I could see that compassion was out of place here, so I added, ‘Keep your workers fed and watered, and they will work harder. That’s what Father used to say.’ He used to say nothing of the sort, but my statement seemed to reassure Featherby that he was not working for a simpleton.
Featherby joined the others across the field, and I watched them for a while. Two men bound the cut stems of the barley into sheaves and then tied them with cords of straw, whilst another picked up the sheaves and carried them to the corner of the field where they were neatly stacked like a pile of Roman bricks.
I looked at my large field and wondered if all the barley would ever be harvested, given the lack of hands and the threat of rain. I could not find any extra men to do the work, and could hardly squeeze any more labour from the likes of old Beatrice. Also, the villagers were keen to leave my land and return to their own small strips where they would harvest what they could before the autumn. I had every right to force them to stay in my fields, but they might starve this winter. Then who would plough, sow, and harrow next spring?
When I returned to the house, Clemence demanded an audience with me in the great hall. She shooed everybody away, apart from Humbert, who hung around behind her as ever, like a silent reflection.
I was weary from the heat in the field and did not feel like the next plateful of arguments. ‘There’s nothing I can do about Versey,’ I told Clemence. ‘It was the earl’s idea. Challenge him on the matter.’
‘This is not about Versey.’
I sighed again. ‘So, what’s the trouble now?’
‘I hear you intend to marry Mother’s maidservant.’
I should have foreseen this. Mother’s outline was visible at the squint. ‘I can do as I please,’ I said loudly, so Mother might hear my words.
Clemence scowled. ‘And bring shame to this family? You stupid little fool. You are Lord of Somershill and Versey now. You cannot marry such a lowly girl and expect to go to court.’
‘I don’t want to go to court.’
‘But I do!’ she said. ‘And this ragged union will taint us all.’
‘Mirabel will be a better marriage partner than you chose. At least there is some love between us.’
Clemence went to strike me, but I grabbed her hand and pushed her away – with such accidental force that she fell to the floor. Humbert jumped in front of me to shield his mistress, as if I were one of those rabid dogs that periodically roam the village in search of a victim to bite.
‘Call him off, Clemence. I’m not going to harm you.’
‘How can I be sure?’ she said. Her voice was uncharacteristically nervous and thin.
‘I’m sorry, Clemence,’ I said, trying to look at her face around the bulk of Humbert’s chest. ‘I’m your brother. I wouldn’t hurt you.’
She stood up reluctantly and waved Humbert away to the shadows, where he took up his station by the tapestry and fixed me with accusing eyes.
Clemence smoothed down her hair and patted her money purse to make sure it was still there. ‘Now, let us conclude this business. You cannot marry this girl, Oswald. You must cancel the arrangement immediately.’
‘No, Clemence. I will not. I love her.’
‘Have you lain with her?’
‘No. Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘That is a relief at least,’ she said under her breath. She looked up, and cleared her throat. ‘I had hoped to persuade you to behave correctly for the sake of our family honour. But it seems you won’t listen. So I must tell you exactly why you cannot marry this girl.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It would be a sin. Her father is your father, Oswald. She is your half-sister.’
‘No, she isn’t,’ I said, but immediately felt the first roll of my stomach.
Clemence looked to the roof. ‘Why do you persist in being so naïve, Oswald? We talked about this before. Father has a whole set of bastards about the estate. She is one of them.’
I sat down on a bench, as my legs began to feel unsteady. ‘How do you know Mirabel is his daughter? There’s no proof.’
‘Mother has a list.’
The blood was returning to my legs now. ‘Mother has a list?’ I scoffed. ‘A list of what?’
‘Of Father’s bastards, of course.’
Now I laughed out loud. ‘Mother could write anybody’s name she cared to on such a list. I expect she wrote Mirabel’s name this morning and sent you down here to stop the marriage. I admire your gall, but it won’t work.’
Clemence pursed her lips. ‘The list was written by Father,’ she said.
‘I don’t believe you. Why would he do such a thing?’
She looked to the roof again. ‘To prevent such an outcome as this, you fool.’
I stood up. ‘Let me see this list then.’
Clemence bristled. ‘It belongs to Mother. She won’t show it to you. It’s private.’
‘Then I don’t believe it exists. And I shall marry Mirabel.’ I noticed Mother’s shadow had disappeared from the squint. I hoped that she had gone somewhere to hide from me in shame. I had called her bluff on this pathetic little scheme.
Clemence faltered. ‘Very well. I’ll get it.’
I had rarely seen my sister appear as awkward as she did on leaving the room and climbing the spiral stairs to the solar. Humbert continued to stare at me. He neither turned his head nor blinked.
Raised voices reached us from the solar, as Mother and Clemence argued about how to produce a document in Father’s hand from thin air. Soon I would be rid of them all. In fact, I de
cided at that very moment to send both of them to Versey. Then Mirabel would be Lady of Somershill, and we would have an idyllic life of love and contentment without the bickering and malice of these two de Lacy gorgons. The idea of it gave me a warm glow of hope, but it was soon to dissipate.
There was complete silence for a while, and then Clemence returned to the hall with a scroll of parchment. She unrolled it on the table and I could see immediately it was written in my father’s hand. I could also see why Clemence and Mother had not been so keen to show it to me.
It was a list of names, under the title of Filios meos. My children. I counted twelve names. Some I recognised, such as Godfrey, son of Rose the cobbler. Others I didn’t, such as Clarice, daughter of Cissie Skippe. All but one of the names were crossed out, and against most my Father had written Mortuus est. Pestilentium, by which I understood them to have died of the Plague.
Running my finger down the column I soon came to the one name I had hoped not to see. ‘Mirabel, daughter of Betty the ale-wife.’ There could be no doubt. Her name was just above ‘Alison and Matilda, daughters of Adeline Starvecrow’.
I sat down on the bench and once again my stomach rolled. ‘Get Mother down here,’ I said to Clemence, and for once she did not argue with me.
When Mother eventually descended to the hall, she had been crying and appeared more sheepish and discomfited than I had ever seen her. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t want you to look at it.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
Clemence tapped me on the shoulder. ‘You understand now that you cannot marry this girl because she is your sister.’
I looked away and said nothing, but Mother took my silence as agreement and went to grab the document. ‘Let’s forget this nonsense, Oswald. We’ll find you such a lovely girl to marry. Every bit as fetching as this silly Mirabel. These village wenches don’t age well, you know. Show me a pretty foal and I’ll show you an ugly—’
I seized her hand as she leant over. ‘Thank you, Mother. But I’ll keep hold of this list for now.’
Mother trembled. ‘There’s no need, Oswald.’
‘But I intend to study it a little further. For I see some words written here in a different hand.’
‘I’ll keep it safe. You mustn’t torment yourself.’
She tried again to wrest the document away from me, but I would not let go. ‘Do you see these words, Mother?’ I pointed to the parchment. ‘This is your hand, I believe.’
She screwed up her eyes and rubbed her temples. ‘I can’t see anything, Oswald. My eyesight is as poor as a mole’s.’
‘Then perhaps you remember writing these words?’ She remained silent. ‘Do you?’
She trembled. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Really? You don’t remember crossing out the names of Alison and Matilda Starvecrow?’
She let go of the parchment and backed away towards the stairs to the solar. ‘I’m feeling quite disturbed, Oswald. There seems to be a noxious vapour in this room.’
‘Yes, there is. It’s you, Mother.’
She quickly shot up the stone steps, but I followed and shouted at her from the bottom of the stairwell. ‘Lupae. Meretrices. She-wolves. Whores. Those are the hateful words, Mother! To write against the names of two murdered girls.’
As a door slammed in the distance, I turned to face Clemence, who regarded me with her arms crossed. ‘You can’t expect Mother to like his bastards.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Just go away, Clemence. Leave me alone.’
She sighed. ‘You’ll get over it, Oswald. There will be other girls.’
I looked up again at her. ‘Will there?’
For a fleeting moment, Clemence’s expression changed. I think she might even have felt sympathy for me.
But then her old demeanour returned.
A face pickled in its own acid.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I crept into the chapel and sat on a small bench in the corner. The Virgin looked down upon me with her newly cleaned eyes. The serenity of her face and the velvet silence of the chamber wrapped me in a moment of peace, before Brother Peter shuffled into the chapel cleaning a silver chalice with a linen rag. He was so engrossed in his polishing that he didn’t notice me at first.
I watched him for a while. His hair was now as white as the face of a barn owl, and his skin hung loosely from his skull. They say drink makes you fat to begin with, but eventually it sucks the flesh from your bones. It was true in Peter’s case. He had been a corpulent man in younger years, but now he was little more than a breathing skeleton. I should have hated him for ever after his sins against Leofwin, but as he whispered words of prayer, I suddenly wanted to seek solace in his embrace. I coughed to let him know I was there.
‘Hello, Oswald,’ he said rather tentatively. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you until tomorrow. How are your wedding plans progressing?’
‘They’re not.’
‘I see. Have you spoken to your mother?’
‘The marriage is cancelled, Brother. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Mirabel is my half-sister.’
‘What?’ He seemed more surprised by this revelation than I had expected. Part of me had assumed he would already know the secret, after some revelation in the confessional. ‘Who told you such a tale?’ he asked.
‘Mother and Clemence.’
Peter huffed. ‘Those two harpies.’
‘They have a list, written by my father.’
‘What sort of list?’
‘An inventory of his bastards.’
Peter sat down next to me with a thud, dropping the silver chalice into his lap as if it were nothing more than a piece of everyday stoneware. ‘Have you seen this list?’
‘Yes. It’s written in Father’s hand. With the title Filios Meos.’
‘How many names were on it?’
‘I counted twelve.’
Then he laughed. ‘The arrogance of the man. Writing a list of his progeny for posterity. Who did he think he was? King David of Israel?’
‘I suspect he wanted to stop any unfortunate unions.’ I sighed. ‘Such as the one I had proposed.’
‘But you love this girl, Oswald.’
‘What good is that?’
Brother Peter puffed. ‘Don’t let this ridiculous piece of paper ruin your happiness. There’s no proof she’s your sister.’
I snorted in disbelief. ‘You can’t give me such advice, Brother. Think of the repercussions? Think of the sin.’
‘But I don’t believe in the list, Oswald. The girl’s mother was an ale-wife. Mirabel could be the child of any number of men from this village. Your father liked to think he could sire a nation, but his seed did not plant itself into every womb in Somershill. There were other men capable.’
‘But what if she is my sister? Think of our children. Look at Leofwin. Son of his own mother and grandfather. I couldn’t risk begetting such a poor creature.’
‘Nothing is certain, Oswald.’
‘Not certain, Brother? How would God suffer such ambivalence to His word?’
‘I’m just being rational, Oswald. And do not quote the word of God back to me. Not when you are such an unbeliever.’
‘But think of the words of Leviticus. Do not have relations with your half-sister, whether she is your father’s daughter or your mother’s daughter.’
‘I only want you to be happy, Oswald.’ The silver chalice then slipped from his lap and fell to the floor, making an ugly chime before rolling across the flagstones, circling, and coming to rest above the tombstone of my grandfather.
Peter quickly picked it up from the floor, before it offended any further member of my dead family. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Oswald. I’m sorry.’
‘Then keep your vile suggestions to yourself!’
I rode to the village to speak to Mirabel, before my resolve softened and I began to countenance Peter’s idea. Reaching her humble cottage, my heart sank down into my stomach a
nd the urge to run away was strong. I tied my troublesome horse Tempest to a post and crept towards Mirabel’s door and spied at her through a crack.
She was sewing a gown. It was not an ornate dress, but still beautiful – there could be no doubt it was for our wedding. As she pierced and drew the needle through the cloth, she sang a song. Its tune was melodic and mournful.
Bird on a briar, bird on a briar,
We come from love, and love we crave,
Blissful bird, have pity on me,
Or dig, love, dig for me my grave.
I knocked at the door and she jumped up to greet me – but the grimness of my face soon betrayed my purpose in coming here. I did not possess the courage to share the true reason for my change of heart with Mirabel, but instead I gave her to believe our difference in station was to blame, and that she would be happier married to a village boy such as Nicholas Carpenter.
Mirabel took the news stoically, as if she had been expecting such an outcome all along – which only made me feel even more ashamed to have meddled in her life.
But if I wanted a regretful tear, she did not oblige. The door was shut firmly after me, and walking away I noticed a tall, red-haired boy sitting in a nearby tree. It was Nicholas Carpenter, and after I passed beneath his branch I’m certain he spat.
I was both heartbroken and morose, but had no time for the indulgence of self-pity, so following an afternoon of solitude in my bedchamber I resumed my duties. The barley and the rye were harvested, and the sheep were shorn. In the orchards, the plums were beginning to ripen in spite of the weather, though the apples were still green and hard. There were tithes to collect and rents to demand. I must soon hold a manorial court, and see to the administration of my estate. Both of my estates.
And there was still the issue of Cornwall’s trial. After all the terrible events of this summer, I would secure his conviction. Though, in truth, I still felt I lacked enough evidence against the man.