by S. D. Sykes
‘I gave you ten beads, Brother.’
‘Did you?’
‘But when you returned them to me, you passed over thirteen.’
He frowned. ‘Did I? They are such small things. You might easily have counted incorrectly.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then they must have become mixed up with some others in my pouch. I do sometimes collect such items.’ He passed the bead back to me. ‘I expect I returned them to you along with the originals.’
‘No, Brother. All the beads were identical and came from the same necklace. A rosary of red coral.’
Peter returned to stirring the pot. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m suggesting it was your Pater Noster.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve never owned such a rosary.’
‘You didn’t. But the abbot did.’
He now stopped stirring. ‘I see, Oswald. So it’s my turn to be under suspicion, is it?’ Then he smiled. ‘But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve pointed the finger at nearly everybody else.’
It was a clever argument and I felt my feet beginning to tremble and lose their grip on the floor. ‘You stole the rosary from the abbot on his deathbed.’
‘Whatever are you talking about?’
‘But you did. Along with the many other items that found their way into our cart when we left the abbey.’
‘That was just wine and some unused vellum. Hardly a crime.’ Now he crossed his arms. ‘I’m becoming insulted.’
Once again he was undermining my arguments. But I would not be discouraged. This was no hallucination, nor false accusation. This time I was certain of my facts. ‘I’ve seen this rosary twice before,’ I told him. ‘Firstly, when I peeped into the abbot’s bedroom to spy upon his buboes. And then, when I was delirious and dying of the Plague myself. You held it over my face and prayed for me. You hoped its rarity and value would save me.’
‘What nonsense.’
‘I’ve dreamt about it. Repeatedly. Though I couldn’t see the meaning of the image, until now.’
‘So I’m accused on the strength of your dreams?’
‘Matilda pulled the Pater Noster from your neck as you attacked her, didn’t she?’ He laughed again. ‘You thought you’d collected all the beads from under her bed.’
If I had assumed he was going to confess, I was disappointed, since he pulled the wooden spoon from the soup and pointed it at me. His expression had turned from amusement to pique. ‘Be careful what you say, Oswald. These are serious accusations.’
‘But it’s what happened, isn’t it?’
‘No. It is not!’ he bellowed.
Peter then resumed his stirring and we avoided looking at one another until the kitchen cat bounded onto the table and broke the silence. As we shooed her away I surprised Peter by beginning my second line of attack.
‘I believe you saw Alison Starvecrow. The day she came to Somershill.’ I tried to keep my voice level and calm.
Peter reached for the silver flask in his belt pouch. ‘Leave me alone, Oswald. Go to the stables and pick on Piers. Since you seem in the mood for a fight.’
‘You suggested a private meeting with Alison in the chapel, didn’t you? After she failed to secure an audience with me or Mother. You wanted to know the purpose of her visit.’
He swilled the brandy about his mouth. ‘The girl was sent home. You know that.’
‘But she didn’t go. Gilbert saw her a second time by the chapel porch. He had the impression she was waiting for somebody.’
He burped and rubbed his stomach. ‘Well it wasn’t me.’
‘Who else would she meet in such a place, but a priest?’
He took another swig from the flask and this time pointed a finger. ‘I want you to stop this now, Oswald. You’re suffering from melancholia and a broken heart after that business with Mirabel. So I’ll forgive you. But you must say no more.’
‘You discovered why Alison wanted to speak with me. Then you suggested she intercept me on my way home from Burrsfield.’
‘I told you to stop this.’
‘You followed her along the drover’s road. Gilbert saw her a third and last time. She was walking towards the forest. Not the village.’
He laughed. ‘That hardly constitutes proof, does it?’
I took the letter from de Caburn’s secretum and placed it in front of him. ‘No, but this does.’
The kitchen cat slithered past us, rubbing her neck against Peter’s leg and looping her black tail about his ankle until he kicked her away. Unrolling the parchment, he squinted in a pretence of not being able to read the writing. ‘What is this now?’
‘It’s the letter from Clemence to de Caburn. She demands he visit her at the convent.’
‘What of it?’
‘She didn’t write this letter.’
‘Clemence might say so. But you can’t trust a viper like your sister.’
‘It’s written in your hand.’
‘Another delusion.’
He went to screw up the parchment, but I snatched it back before he had the chance to throw it into the fire. ‘You’ve disguised your writing well enough, Brother. But you’ve been my tutor since I was seven. I would know your hand if I were half blind.’ I pointed to the lettering. ‘See the ascenders of the ‘‘t”s, and the tails of the ‘‘g”s. Nobody else writes in such a way.’
His face reddened and tears were forming again, although this time the pungent stink of the onions was not to blame. He turned his back to me and stared at the wall.
I took a deep breath. ‘You followed Alison into the forest and murdered her. The fatal wound was the clean slice of a knife.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then you buried her body. Only her grave was too shallow, and Gower’s pigs were able to sniff her out.’
He began to rock from foot to foot. ‘This is absurd.’
‘What was the secret Alison wanted to share with me, Brother? So terrible you had to murder her?’
‘Stop it.’
‘Because Matilda knew the secret too, didn’t she? You realised that when I recounted my conversation with the girl.’
He turned to me again, his face tear-stained and red. ‘She was infected with demons, Oswald. You couldn’t believe a word the girl said.’
‘You gave me a sleeping draught, then went to the Starvecrows’ cottage to murder her. And it was the abbot’s stolen Pater Noster that she grabbed as you attacked her. I know it.’
He shook his head, though I’m not sure if it was in disagreement or despair.
‘Then you buried Matilda. Only this time you dug a much deeper hole. This time you wanted to make certain pigs wouldn’t sniff her out like a truffle.’
‘That’s enough now, Oswald!’ Peter clenched his hands into a ball, his bony knuckles white and pronounced. ‘Don’t speak that way of the dead.’
‘She’s only dead because you murdered her!’
His hands clenched further into fists and I think he might have been considering punching me, but then suddenly thought better of it. Slowing his breathing, he recovered his composure and smoothed down his habit. ‘I wonder, Oswald, how Matilda’s head came to be dropped in the well of St Blaise? If, as you contend, I buried her? Does your gift for deduction have the answer to that mystery?’
I had no further evidence to rely upon, only my suspicions. Nevertheless, I would not admit defeat. ‘I can explain that,’ I told him boldly.
A smile curled across his lips. ‘Please do. I would be interested to hear.’
‘I don’t believe you visited the bishop during the week Clemence was married.’
‘You’re ignoring my question, Oswald.’
‘You hid in the empty Starvecrow cottage.’
‘Is that so?’
‘When I found the burning embers of your fire, you locked me inside.’
He flung his hands up in the air. ‘Why would I be hiding out in a hovel, Oswald? On
ce again your imagination spirals off into fantasy.’
‘You were taking advantage of the good fortune you’d been handed.’
He laughed. ‘What good fortune?’
‘Cornwall’s monster. The dog-headed beast.’ He made as if to laugh again. Only this time the tone was thin and tentative. ‘At first you were as disgusted as I by such a tall tale,’ I said. ‘Maybe more so. But then you realised this ignorant invention could work to your advantage.’
The onions began to bubble over in the pot, and steam filled the kitchen. Peter went to stir the pan, but I took his arm and prevented him from moving. ‘While you claimed to be visiting the bishop, you exhumed Matilda’s body and removed her head.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘You mutilated her corpse so it would appear she had been gored to death by a monster with the teeth of a dog. That’s why there were fresh maggots in the wound. You then put her head in a holy place. The well of St Blaise. Somewhere you knew everybody would visit after Clemence’s wedding.’
He remained silent.
‘With the dog head story established, it was easy for you to murder de Caburn. You lured him into the forest with the letter. Then you ambushed and murdered him.’
‘And how do you imagine I killed such a man as Lord Versey? He saved the king’s son from the French at Cressy. He’s a giant, and I’m nothing but a withered old man.’
‘You shot him with your metal weapon.’
Peter drew back. ‘I told you. The black powder was exhausted. I had no more.’
‘You lied. You had enough for a second attack.’
He pointed at me. ‘The weapon hasn’t left your father’s library.’
‘Yes it has. I even helped you lift it into the cart with Clemence myself. When you left for the convent. Except I thought your heavy chest was filled with brandy.’
‘Stop this, Oswald.’ His voice was suddenly small and defeated.
‘You cut away the skin on de Caburn’s face and hands to remove the sooty residue from the blast. But you could not remove the scent on his body, could you? The scent of burning.’
‘Please, Oswald.’
‘You then draped his naked and mutilated body over the shrine of the Virgin. To make his death appear demonic. Everything had worked out, just as you planned. Except for one thing. A turn you had not predicted. Something you had not foreseen.’ He held his hand out to me, but I ignored it. ‘You never supposed I would be arrested for your crimes, did you? So you panicked. And in your haste, you led them to Leofwin, an innocent boy.’
He spoke into the cowl of his habit. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘No. I don’t!’
He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘Everything was dangerous for you here, Oswald. You must see that. At every corner there was a mischief maker or rogue waiting to defy you or even take your place.’ A waft of brandy fumes hit my nostrils as he attempted to embrace me. ‘I had to stop them. Why can’t you see that?’ When I dodged his grip, he slunk back to the bench and put his head in his hands. ‘Why can’t you be grateful that I saved you?’
I stood over him. ‘So you admit to murdering the Starvecrow sisters and Walter de Caburn?’
He took a deep breath and nodded.
‘I want to hear you say it.’
He whispered, ‘You know I did.’
‘And you caused Leofwin to be murdered?’
Peter wiped his mouth clear of spittle. ‘Yes.’
The fire under the pan had died down and the onions now floated at the surface like dead fish in a poisoned pool. The cat crept out of the shadows and lay on the flagstones near to the embers, stretching out her claws, seeming to have forgotten her kicking.
In the distance we could hear Piers singing another tune from the back porch, this song no more cheering than the last. Bones in the black pit, can’t sow barley in the fields.
Peter held his hands together and stared into the orange glow of the flames. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know.’ It was the truth. I had planned no further than exacting a confession.
‘I should have told you before, Oswald.’ His words seemingly directed towards the fire. ‘You would have forgiven me.’
‘I doubt it.’
He wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘I presume you’ve asked yourself why I committed these sins?’ He turned and studied my face for a few moments. ‘No. I see my motive has eluded you.’
‘You had a warped notion of protecting me,’ I said quickly.
He watched me a while longer, his eyes scanning my face. ‘But you don’t know why, do you? I can see that. I thought perhaps you might have guessed?’
‘Guessed what?’
He sighed. ‘Then there is something I should explain to you.’
I tried to laugh. ‘More lies and excuses, Brother? No thank you. Keep them to yourself.’
He took my arm and I was unable to shake him off. ‘You asked me about the secret the Starvecrow sisters kept. Do you want to know what it was? Or will you send me to the gallows with it?’
I should have told Brother Peter to keep the lid upon his Pandora’s jar.
But I have been granted curiosity by the gods.
And regretfully I asked to look inside.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Great Mortality has not only shaped the land, it has shaped me. Since last summer I have cut down hedges to farm sheep and abandoned my fields of barley. My rivers have broken their banks to find new courses, and my chestnuts grow un-coppiced into a forest. But all of this could be restored. If I had the men.
However, no army could restore me to the boy I was.
When the Pestilence first crept over from the east, I hid in a monastery, until its small hand knocked at the door to be let in. Then I left for my estate, along with my priest, hoping its silent footsteps would not follow us. As we travelled we eschewed all others and thought only of ourselves. We were both men of God, but we passed the homes of the dying and refused to administer last rites. We rolled past corpses and did not bury them. We beat away a child who clung to our cart for his own dear life. Without another soul to turn to, we abandoned this boy to a village inhabited only by the dead.
We did all this. I did all this. Even though I had nearly died myself.
And when we reached safety, we could not speak of these sins. The Plague was to blame. It had warped us into something we were not. It had disfigured and corrupted us.
But we had not been dirtied by the Pestilence. The very opposite was true. It was the lye soap exposing us for what we really were – our morality no thicker than the paint on the face of a wooden effigy. Easy to rub off. Quick to reveal the coarse grain beneath.
Now the Pestilence sleeps and the world is left only with the strong, the lucky, or the selfish. Which of those am I?
Perhaps I am all three.
Peter motioned for me to sit next to him on the bench, but I remained standing – not wanting to be drawn into his intimacy. When I refused, he took another glug from his flask, licking the last drops of liquor from about his mouth. ‘I’ll begin with your birth, Oswald.’
‘Why? I don’t see how that’s relevant?’
He ignored my objection and once again reached out to me. But I would not be his friend, no matter how many times he held out a hand. ‘You were born in May 1332,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Your mother nearly died in labour.’
‘This is no secret.’
His voice tightened. ‘Please just listen.’
‘No. Don’t you think I’ve heard this enough times, Brother?’ He went to interrupt me a second time, but I held up my hand and impersonated Mother’s breathless manner of speaking. ‘I was confined to my bed for many months after you were born, Oswald. Not sure if I would live or die. Thanks to you, my undercarriage now droops between my legs like the udder of an aged dairy cow, and my breasts swing like a pair of long woollen socks drying in the wind.’ I reverted to my own voice. ‘So I say to you again, Brother. This
is no secret.’
‘I’m not talking about my lady. I speak of your real mother. A woman called Adeline Starvecrow.’
‘What?’
He stoked up the embers and rekindled the flames beneath the pan of onions. ‘She was a girl of seventeen. A spinner. Married to a ploughman called William.’
I wanted to laugh. ‘My father wasn’t a ploughman!’
Now he looked me in the eye. ‘No, Oswald. Your father was a priest.’
I was dumbstruck.
Peter turned back to the fire and pulled up the hood of his habit – the steam of the pan now shrouding him like a pall. His profile was as slack as the old nag’s in the water meadow, the peak of his hood bearing down upon his thin and ugly head.
I stood up in some consternation and walked to the door. ‘My name is Oswald de Lacy, son of Henry de Lacy.’ I pulled up the latch. ‘Get out of here.’
But Peter did not move. ‘Close the door, Oswald.’
‘Get out! You’re not my father. How dare you even suggest such a disgusting idea?’
Still he would not move, so I left the door and grabbed at the wool of his habit to pull him from the bench. But Peter was a sinewy man – still strong enough to shake me off. When I rushed at him a second time he was able to push me against the sweating stone of the wall and clamp his hand about my neck. ‘I’ve committed mortal sins and shall burn in the fires of Hell, Oswald. What do you say to that?’
I struggled to speak. ‘I don’t care.’
The hand tightened. ‘You think I would turn my back on eternal life so easily? For the son of a greedy nobleman? A boy I taught Latin and Geometry?’
‘Let go of me, Brother. You’re hurting.’
He relaxed his hand a little, but not enough for me to escape his grip. ‘I love God, Oswald. You know that. So ask yourself why?’ I felt his breath, hot upon my face. ‘Why would I offend Him in such terms? Who could I love more than God?’
‘I don’t know,’ I stammered. My throat was bruised.
‘Only one person, Oswald. My own son. You!’ His face was red. His eyes were bulging. ‘So do not accuse me of lying.’
He allowed me to escape – but only as far as a dark corner, where I crouched between a broomstick and a sooty shovel.