The Bone Fire

by The Bone Fire (retail) (epub)

  I tramped along the island path, always making sure to look ahead of me, in case I should see another traveller in the distance. It was my intention to avoid all contact with other people, but I need not have worried, since the track was empty. I met nobody – apart from a curious cat. I heard nothing – apart from the defeated barking of the wild dogs in the distance. It was strange to be outside again after two weeks within the high walls of the castle. The wide spaces were intimidating, if not overwhelming – and I was alone. For the first time in many days, I was completely without company.

  After a while, I descended a path through a sheltered glade, finding myself out of the cold winds at last. As I entered a fold in the land, it seemed as if winter had been briefly held at bay. The ground was softer, even muddy in places, warmed by a quilt of fallen leaves. For a moment this cheered me, and then I recalled the last time I had walked along this track, on the night we had arrived at Castle Eden. The memories of that journey were fresh in my mind – the fog, the rain and the sense of foreboding that had borne down upon us – with good reason now it seemed. The castle had not turned out to be the refuge we had hoped for. Instead it had become a bear-garden, no better than those along the riverbanks in Southwark. Our pit had been the four walls of the castle. Our tormentor had baited us with murder.

  It was this thought that urged me on, warning me not to linger in this valley. I found the gallows at the crossroads, where the same man still hung from the gibbet – his skeletal body now being picked free of flesh by the crows. I then turned right along a thinner path, soon heading into dense woodland. This path rose sharply to the brow of the hill and then dropped again into a valley on the other side – a glade of dense, untouched forest. If this island had been named after the Garden of Eden, then this valley was surely the inspiration – for, apart from this thin track, there was no sign of man here. No coppicing, no log heaps and no charcoal piles. My only company was the majestic oaks that held these slopes like an army of giants, supported by an infantry of holly and yew.

  It seemed so unlikely that anybody lived here, that I began to wonder if Edwin had been telling me the truth about Godfrey’s secret cottage. Suddenly I imagined him sitting in his bedchamber and laughing at his success in sending me out on this fool’s errand. But, just as I was preparing to retrace my steps, I came upon a clearing in the forest, a circle of land surrounded by oaks – their branches reaching up toward the skies like the fan vaults of a cathedral. In the centre of this sylvan nave was a small cottage – newly built, with an oak frame and roofed with wooden shingles. It was plain and simple in its design, but this was not a peasant’s hovel – it could only be Godfrey’s retreat.

  I watched the cottage for a while from the safety of the trees, but saw no obvious sign of life. There was no smoke rising from the hole in the roof, and no sounds coming from within. Even so, I didn’t feel ready to approach the door yet, so I crept about the perimeter of the clearing, always keeping my eyes to the small cottage in the centre, hoping to catch some movement. But still I saw nothing, other than a pair of magpies that had landed on the roof ridge, and who were now watching my progress with interest.

  It was when I reached the back of the cottage that something else caught my eye, however. It was a long mound of earth poking up through the carpet of leaves – freshly dug and large enough to be the grave of a woman and her child. This was enough to persuade me to now make my approach. I crept through the leaves and then crouched beneath one of the windows. The wooden shutters were closed, but there was a small gap between two of the slats and I was able to peep through at the room beyond. At first I could see little in the poor light, but then, as my eyes adjusted, I made out a pair of men’s boots on the floor. They were brown and sturdy, and made in the Dutch style. They surely belonged to Hans.

  I pulled my dagger from its sheath and slowly pushed at the unlocked door, opening it far enough to see that the main chamber of the cottage was empty. There was no fire in the hearth and no sign of Hans, other than his boots. I pushed the door a little wider and then stole inside, silently making my way across this room to poke my head through the dividing curtain into the chamber beyond. Here there was a single bed, inhabited by somebody with their back to me – but this was not Hans. It was a woman. When I looked more closely, I could see that she was still alive, her breathing shallow and erratic. In the corner I saw a cradle – as silent and cheerless as a sarcophagus.

  I lifted my chemise over my mouth and edged forward, for I had guessed what was also lurking in this room.

  ‘Abigail?’ I said quietly. ‘Is that you?’

  The woman didn’t respond.

  ‘Abigail?’ I repeated. ‘My name is Oswald de Lacy. Lord Somershill. I was a friend of your husband’s.’

  At my second appeal, she turned over slowly. ‘Lord Somershill. Is that you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I prayed that you would come.’

  This statement took me by surprise. ‘You prayed this, Abigail? Why was that?’

  She held out a hand to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch her, as her fingertips were blackening. ‘Godfrey trusted you, Lord Somershill,’ she said. ‘Above all his other friends and family. I knew that you would come for me, when Godfrey was murdered.’

  ‘Who told you that Godfrey was killed?’ I said.

  ‘A man came here,’ she said. ‘He told me.’ She coughed – a guttural, soggy churn that originated in her lungs and not her throat. ‘It was a young Dutchman. One of the clockmakers that Godfrey brought here to build his clock.’

  ‘Where is this man now?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘I buried him myself.’

  I felt my heart beating faster. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘It was plague.’ She coughed again. ‘I should not have opened the door to him, Lord Somershill. But I thought Godfrey had sent him to me. To bring Simon and me back to the castle.’ She closed her eyes, exhausted by the effort of speaking. ‘But he brought more than the news of Godfrey’s murder to this house. He also brought the sickness. The foolish man had visited a tavern on his way here. It was he who carried the seeds of plague to my house. It is he who has killed us.’

  I found a stool beside the wall, and fell down upon it. Thoughts were flying wildly about my head. Thoughts that I needed to settle and then organise. ‘When did the Dutchman die, Abigail?’ I said at length.

  Her breathing was laboured, and she struggled to say each word. ‘Three days ago.’

  This answer did not settle my mind, in fact it caused more agitation. ‘And when did the Dutchman get here?’ I asked. She was silent for a few moments, and I wondered if she had understood my question. ‘Abigail.’ I now spoke with urgency. ‘I need to know when the Dutchman arrived at your house. It’s very important.’ Her response was a long and wearied groan. ‘Please, Abigail,’ I urged. ‘Try to remember.’

  There was another long pause, and for a moment I thought she had drifted into unconsciousness, when she surprised me by mumbling an answer. ‘He was here two days before he died,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I said, as my heart continued to thump. ‘I need to know for certain.’

  She opened her eyes and suddenly focused. ‘This man was already ill when he arrived, Lord Somershill. I let him in and I gave him a bed for two days. And then I buried him. It was my Christian duty, but I regret it.’

  I put my head in my hands and pushed my fingers against my eyes. Hans was not the murderer I sought. How could he be? The man had been in this cottage for at least five days. I nearly shouted out in anger. Not only had I wasted my time in coming here, it now appeared that I had left my family back at the castle, at the mercy of the true killer. When I eventually looked up, I saw that Abigail had raised herself a little on the bolster and was now watching me intently.

  ‘I prayed for you to come,’ she said again. Her voice now had a strength and clarity. ‘I prayed so often, Lord Somershill. I wanted
you to save us.’

  ‘I cannot take you back with me, Abigail,’ I said. ‘You’re dying of plague.’

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘My prayers were selfish to begin with. I understand that now. I only cared for my life and that of my son.’

  At this, I stood up and edged over to the cradle in the corner, daring myself to look inside at the silent bundle of swaddling. I turned away, unable to gaze upon a second dead child in one day. ‘When did Simon die?’ I asked her, quickly returning to my stool.

  ‘Poor Simon,’ she whispered, her eyes closing. ‘We named him after Godfrey’s uncle, you know.’ She gave a weak laugh. ‘We hoped this would appease the old monk.’

  ‘Appease him for what?’ I asked. She didn’t answer. ‘Did you think Old Simon would be angry about your marriage to Godfrey?’

  She opened her eyes again. ‘God has brought you to me, Lord Somershill,’ she exclaimed, ‘I know that now for certain. He wants you to continue Godfrey’s work.’

  I couldn’t help but stiffen at this suggestion. ‘I don’t know anything about Godfrey’s work,’ I said, ‘your husband never confided in me.’

  Her face had been pale and sweating earlier in our conversation, but now it was red with passion. It was a look I recognised – for I had seen Godfrey wear it enough times. ‘You must do it,’ she said. ‘You must swear to it, Lord Somershill. It is God’s wish for you.’

  ‘Abigail,’ I said softly. ‘I cannot continue Godfrey’s work, because I do not know what it was.’

  ‘Then let me share this wondrous news,’ she said, closing her eyes and letting her face dissolve into a blissful smile. ‘My husband was working on the most important undertaking, Lord Somershill. The greatest step forward for Christianity in this land, since Augustine founded a church in Canterbury.’

  ‘What was it, Abigail?’ I asked, now uncertain that I wanted to know the answer.

  ‘Godfrey was translating the New Testament into English,’ she told me. ‘It has taken him many years, but now it is near completion. Can you imagine the power of such a book? A bible that a person can read and understand for himself?’ She opened her eyes and held out her hand to me for a second time, though once again I refused to take it. She carried on nonetheless, undeterred by my reticence. ‘It was Godfrey’s dream that each English man and woman might hear the Word of God in their own tongue. No matter who they were. The church cannot keep the scriptures to itself any longer. The age of Roman tyranny is nearly over.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You must find Godfrey’s translation. You must take it to John Cubit in Oxford. Then you must help Father John to distribute Godfrey’s bible to the four corners of our land.’ She began to cough again, exhausted by this appeal. ‘You must not fail, Lord Somershill. If you do, then Godfrey’s life has been in vain.’

  I was lost for words, for her plea was not a modest request. By making such a promise, I would be committing myself to a perilous venture. The church would not tolerate a bible in English, especially as it had been translated by Godfrey – a man with a reformer’s eye. If I became involved in this mission, then I risked excommunication or worse.

  And yet a dying woman’s wish exerts a strong pull on a person’s conscience. ‘Where is this translation hidden?’ I asked, deciding that I would deliver the document to John Cubit, and nothing more.

  Abigail looked at me before slowly closing her eyes. She was only moments from death.

  ‘Where is it hidden? I repeated.

  She said something, but her words were barely audible.

  ‘Where is it, Abigail?’ I said for the final time, now lifting my chemise further over my mouth and creeping as close to her bed as I dared. ‘I cannot help you, if you don’t tell me.’

  She took a deep breath, rallying her strength for this one last instruction. ‘Look in the hood of the fireplace in Godfrey’s library,’ she said. ‘There is a void behind one of the corbels.’ She began to groan. A wearied, rasping sound.

  ‘Are you sure about that, Abigail?’

  But she did not hear me. From that moment onwards, her words were a jumble of muttered prayers and appeals to the Almighty. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering spasms, before she suddenly became still. So still that I thought she had died, when she shocked me by opening her eyes for one last time. Her voice lucid and strong. ‘I go to be with God,’ she said. ‘May He forgive my sins, and grant me everlasting life.’ After this, she coughed, releasing a dribble of blood, before her head fell to one side and she was finally dead.

  I said a prayer myself, and then stood up to leave, though a voice now whispered in my ear. It belonged to Old Simon. A prayer is not enough, Lord Somershill. Give this woman and her child a good death. Give them the Christian burial that they deserve. I shook him away, for I didn’t have time for the chastisements of an old monk. I had wasted enough time already in coming here, and needed to return to my own family.

  I closed the door to the cottage with a heavy heart, stepping out across the carpet of leaves, when I heard a sound. It was nothing louder than a faint mewling to begin with, not unlike the cry of a baby. And yet, I knew that it couldn’t be Simon, because Abigail had told me that her son was dead. Moreover, I had looked inside the cradle myself and seen his silent, motionless body.

  The sound stopped, followed by a peace that was only punctured by the caw of the magpies that were still watching me from the roof. Convincing myself that these birds had been the source of the mewling, I set off again – but as soon as I put one foot forward, the cry came once more. This time I knew that it could not be a magpie. This time the sound was louder and more insistent. It was definitely the cry of a baby.

  I stood still for a while, wondering whether to return to the cottage or not. But what would be the point? I could not help this child. He would soon die of plague, just as his mother had done. I needed to be resolute and make my way back to Castle Eden, for the sake of Hugh and Filomena. But once again the voice of Old Simon came to me. I see that you put yourself and your family above all others, Lord Somershill. It is a common sin. I banged my ear to rid myself of his words, and yet they became louder and louder at each step forward, not even drowned out by the bleating calls of the child inside the cottage. I pray for you, Lord Somershill. I pray nightly for your soul.

  I finally reached the edge of the clearing and the safety of the trees, but now the cries of the baby were so urgent that I held my hands over my ears to blot them out. I could do nothing to help this boy. He was not my responsibility. I was needed by my own family. I stepped forward again with renewed determination, and now that I was moving out of his range, Simon’s calls softened to a sob. The weak, heartbreaking tears of a child who knows that nobody will ever answer his call. And then there was silence – the cold and eerie silence of surrender – far worse than anything that came before.

  I tried to walk into the forest and leave him behind. I tried to escape this turn of the Fates, but there would be no peace for me if I left this place, no matter how many prayers Old Simon might say for my soul. I knew that this silence would ring in my ears for the rest of my life. I had left Annora to die on her own, but I could not fail this child in the same way.

  And so I retraced my steps to the cottage and opened the door. I pulled my chemise over my mouth and crept over to the crib, mustering the courage to look down properly this time. Would his body be covered in the buboes of this cruel disease? Would his fingers be swollen and blackened with plague? But no, as I pulled back the swaddling, I saw only a small child with the pale white skin and red hair of the Eden family. Simon looked up at me and smiled, utterly delighted to see the face of another human being – even one as craven as my own.

  I lifted him from his cradle, finding that he smelt strongly of his own filth, but he wasn’t feverish. I removed the linen and then returned him to the crib, so that he could kick his thin legs about freely in the air. There were no obvious signs of illness, and yet I knew better than to trust my eyes when it came to plague. It likes
to lurk in the undergrowth, skulking like a wolf. The child might have looked healthy enough then, but I could not have simply wrapped him up and taken him back with me to Castle Eden. This might have appeased my own conscience, but the price of such recklessness could have been the deaths of others – in particular those of my wife and son.

  So what was I to do? I could not leave Simon here to die, and yet I could not take him back with me. I stopped for a moment. I looked up and spoke a prayer to the rafters. An apology to Filomena and Hugh, and then I made my decision.

  This cottage would be our home now. For at least the next six days. I would care for the boy until he either died, or proved himself clear of plague. My search for the killer would have to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The soil was soft beneath the leaves, but I was so anxious to commit Abigail to the ground, that I dug only the shallowest of graves for her body. However, this was still the Christian burial of which Old Simon would have approved, as Abigail was laid down in the pit with her body facing to the East. At the Day of Judgment, she would be ready for resurrection, able to rise from her grave to face the return of Christ. Such beliefs mattered to her, so I would honour them.

  With her burial complete, I took all of her bedding and clothes, and then built a fire in the clearing. Despite the cold, it wasn’t difficult to light this pyre once I’d found Abigail’s flint and iron striker, along with an assortment of her char-cloths. Once the fire was burning brightly, I closed the door on the outside world and looked about at my new home. My first thoughts were of the gloomiest kind. It seemed that I had swapped imprisonment within a castle, for imprisonment within this small cottage.

  I built another fire. This time in the hearth. Then I boiled a couple of eggs that I’d discovered in a bowl. It was all that I could find to feed the child, apart from some stale bread that I chewed upon and then poked into his mouth with the end of my finger. I had seen the nursemaids feed Hugh in such a way, when he was being weaned. Typically my son had made a great fuss about this, spitting out the bread as if he were being poisoned, but this infant made no such protests. Simon had a strong and steadfast will to survive, that much was clear.