by S. D. Sykes
Instead she held out her hand so I might help her from the seat.
When I refused, she heaved a wearied sigh. ‘What is it, Oswald? Please be quick. I want to get away from Mother as soon as I can. She’s trying to feed me one of de Waart’s purgatives to induce labour.’
I felt my stomach roll. ‘Don’t take anything that man prescribes.’
Clemence waved her hand. ‘Just get on with your story.’
I hesitated.The words rested on my tongue, but what an admission they held, and Mother was now within yards of us.
‘Be quick, Oswald,’ she urged.
‘I opened the lid of the coffin.’
My sister screwed up her face in disgust. ‘God’s nails, Oswald. Why did you do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’ Now she rolled her eyes. My sister always thought me so foolish. Lacking the pedigree to be lord. ‘I was curious,’ I told her boldly.
‘Why?’
My tongue felt tied. ‘I just was.’ She smiled at my discomfort. ‘I was right to look.’ I insisted, dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘There was no body inside the coffin.’
Now Clemence reddened. ‘Are you sure?’
‘There was nothing inside but a wooden effigy.The small Christ child that had been stolen from St Giles.’
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘So where is the body then?’
‘I don’t know.’
It was too late. Mother fell beside me on the bench, panting and wheezing like a wool dyer beside a tub of steaming mordant. When she recovered her breath, she turned to my sister and scowled. ‘What are you doing out here, Clemence? Your humours will be assaulted by this cold air.’
‘I’m perfectly well,’ said Clemence.
Mother shook her head in despair. ‘With this constant insistence on wandering around outside, I shouldn’t be surprised if you don’t give birth to a little snowball. A child made of ice.’
‘Don’t be so absurd. I’m wearing a cape. My son is quite warm enough inside me.’
Mother smirked. ‘Too warm if you ask me. That child is overcooked. It should have been born weeks ago.’
My sister’s face was beginning to sour. Her small hands tightening into fists. ‘Make up your mind Mother,’ she said. ‘Is my child too hot or too cold?
I quickly intervened. ‘There’s no hurry for the child to be born. It’s still healthy and moving.’
Mother scoffed. ‘What on earth do you know about such matters, Oswald? You were educated in a monastery. Did a monk ever give birth?’ I shrugged by way of reply. ‘No. Exactly. You are quite unacquainted with the workings of a woman’s body.’
‘I know more than that fool who claims to be your physician,’ I said. ‘I hear he’s still in the castle.’
‘Hush, Oswald. I am a great admirer of Master de Waart. Would you have me suffer without his care?’
‘It’s his care that’s causing your suffering.’ I said. ‘I don’t know why you employ him.’
‘To calm my nerves, of course. Versey is a very disquieting place. It doesn’t suit my temperament at all.’
Clemence coughed pointedly. ‘What is it that you wanted, Mother?’
‘You must return to the house. It’s time for your purgative.’
Clemence groaned, but Mother ignored this response and turned to me, prodding a finger into my arm. ‘And you need to attend to this murder, Oswald.’
‘What murder?’
‘The murder I’ve just told you about.’
‘You haven’t said a word about a murder.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Are you sure? Gilbert brought the news from Somershill.’
I stood up. ‘Where’s Gilbert now?’
‘In the kitchen, I suppose,’ said Mother with a note of irritation in her voice. ‘That’s where servants are normally to be found.’
The kitchen at Versey is perhaps the only pleasant room in the castle. The scent from the bread ovens drifts through the air and warms the nostrils. The heat is dry and comforting – a reminder of happier times.
I found Gilbert sitting next to Clemence’s servant John Slow in a smoky corner. Gilbert was resting on a wooden stool, whereas Slow, a man who mistrusted furniture, had taken up his usual position on the stone floor. The two servants spoke in a low mumble, on a topic that must have been fascinating, as they failed to look up when I sped into the room.
It was Slow who noticed my presence first. He nudged Gilbert’s leg in a panic and struggled to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, sire. We didn’t see you there.’Then he flinched – crouching and holding his head in his hands, as if I were about to strike him. This was Slow’s usual reaction to me, though I had never assaulted the man.
‘Please leave us,’ I said. ‘I need to speak with Gilbert.’ Slow backed away from me, bowing as obsequiously as a penitent leaving the presence of the Holy Father, but when the man considered himself out of my sight, he bolted away in his strange gait, rocking from foot to foot like a man upon a hobby horse. On reaching the kitchen door he rested against the door frame and took a deep breath, seemingly under the impression that he had avoided the punishment that Gilbert was now certain to receive.
Gilbert’s reaction to me could hardly have been more different. Though I was his master, he took time to wipe the crumbs from his mouth before lethargically getting to his feet. ‘Sire?’
I should have reprimanded him in some way, but Mother’s story was more pressing. ‘I hear you have some news from Somershill?There’s been a murder. Is that correct?’
He sighed and nodded, but still did not say a word.
‘Come on, Gilbert,’ I said. ‘I’m a busy man.’ This was not entirely true – since I was neither that occupied and not yet considered a man – but his indolence was provoking.
‘A child has been found dead, sire. Murdered.’ He clasped his hands together as if he were about to pray.
‘Who is it?’
‘A newborn girl. Only just baptised.’ He then held his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and suddenly I realised that he was trying to suppress a sob. Small tears leaked from the rims of his eyes.
‘You say she was murdered?’ He nodded. ‘Can you tell me her name?’
He composed himself and blew his nose. It was strange to see my valet so affected, as the man was usually no more sentimental than a storm cock smacking a snail against a stone. ‘She was the daughter of Thomas Tulley, sire. They named her Catherine.’
‘Are you sure she was murdered?’
His shoulders shuddered. ‘She was—’ But he was unable to finish the sentence. Instead he slumped back down upon the stool and hung his head. A couple of the scullions gathered to look upon him, whispering in wonderment at the man who usually scolded them for a dirty pan or poorly plucked bird. I shooed them away with the command to fetch ale.
The ale was warm and frothy and tasted of bread dough with the bitter aftertaste of dandelion leaves.
Gilbert drank his down promptly. ‘I’m sorry, sire.’ He blew his nose once again upon his sleeve. ‘I don’t usually become so affected. It’s just what happened to her body.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was left in a bush of blackthorn. Her skin pierced by the spurs and thorns.’
I felt a dismal churning in my stomach. ‘Do you know who’s responsible?’
‘It’s not a mystery. That’s why you are needed back at Somershill.The whole village is in uproar.’
‘Then who is it?’
I’m disappointed to say that a smile began to curl at the corner of his mouth. His tears now washed away by the mug of ale. ‘Which creature kills other nestlings and stores them upon the thorns of a tree?’
‘I’m in no mood for riddles, Gilbert.’
He put the mug upon a nearby table and stood up. He was no taller than me, but his frame was solid and thick, like a seasoned oak. ‘It was a bird, sire. A butcher bird.’
I looked him over. Was he being sincere? It was so difficult to read his w
eathered face. The sun and wind had worn away its nuances. ‘The shrike is a small bird, Gilbert. It couldn’t lift an infant from its crib. Not even a newborn infant. It only attacks—’ And then I stopped myself, realising what Gilbert had really meant. ‘John Barrow did not beget a bird,’ I said.
My valet raised his eyebrows, and then wiped away a bead of mucus from his nose. ‘But he said he did. I heard it myself only four weeks ago. At the last court.’
‘The man is ill.’
‘Maybe so. But he’ll be dead soon.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I snapped.
‘They’ll hang him, when they find him.’
I groaned. ‘Go to the stables and prepare Tempest.’
He straightened his tunic and then bowed to me, though I would say this gesture was no better than half-hearted. ‘Very well, sire. Are you riding back to Somershill straight away?’ he asked me.
‘Of course I am.’ He trudged out of the chamber, grumbling under his breath like a starved stomach. ‘And be quick about it,’ I added.
He pretended not to hear.
Chapter Two
I rode to Somershill at speed, since I would not allow the village to set upon John Barrow like a pack of dogs. For once the forest floor was frozen and a horse moves quickly, if not comfortably, along hard ground. I was thankful for these conditions, since it had rained so often in the last two years that the paths were often quagmires. And I was not alone on these favourable tracks. Bands of people passed me, moving from one place to another, their carts laden with benches and stools.Their livestock trailing alongside them like a troupe of wearied players. More than once, chickens or geese strayed across my path and disturbed Tempest with their squawking and fluttering, before they were rounded up by a child and chased back into their wicker cages.
These travellers were not the ragged fugitives of the Plague years however – those people who had tried to flee its grasping fingers. They were well dressed in the main, with leather boots and fur-lined cloaks. Even the children wore shoes. But beneath these clothes were skeletal bodies that moved with the lethargy and downcast eyes of an overworked donkey. They had inherited or acquired the trappings of wealth, but lacked the food to feed a hungry stomach. Sometimes they asked me for alms, or even a crust of bread. But once I had emptied my purse and given away all of my food, they stopped bothering me and I rode on in haste past their silent faces.
* * *
On reaching my home, I found the main street of Somershill village to be deserted – the only sound that met my ears was the shrill call of a robin that disliked my proximity to his tree. I rode on, passing the larger cottages along this street, where those families who had survived the Plague were now taking advantage of the cheaper tenancies on olfer. Roofs had been re-thatched. Hedges cut down. Ditches cleared of brambles and dock. And in the fields, where previously a family had toiled to grow a subsistence of barley and turnips, there were now flocks of sheep. Their woollen coats dotted across the grass like the tufted heads of cotton sedge.
My first call was the home of John Barrow, though the likelihood of the man still being behind his own door was small. Sure enough, my knocking was met with silence. I pushed open the flimsy wooden door to find that the chamber had been ransacked. A table lay on its side. The charcoal of the fire pit was kicked about the floor. A straw mattress had even been pulled to pieces, as if somebody had expected to find Barrow hiding in his own bedclothes. There was little else to see in this sad and pathetic place. Barrow was clearly not a man making the most of the new times. From the look of his home, it seemed he was intent upon hiding away in this stinking place until the end of his life.
I left quickly, pleased of the light and air outside, to find a freckle-faced youth staring at my horse.
‘Keep away,’ I said quickly. ‘My horse doesn’t like children.’ This was true. Their ears were just at the right height for him to bite. They flew further when he kicked them.
I took the boy by his skinny arm and led him out of Tempest’s range, for I could now see more of my horse’s teeth than I cared to. ‘Where’s John Barrow?’ I asked.
The boy’s face lightened. ‘He’s run away, sire. After his bird killed baby Catherine.’
I was dismayed to discover that this lie was now being repeated by the grubbiest of urchins. ‘Is everybody hunting for him?’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes, sire. They’re going to bring Barrow back to the village and force him to say where his bird is hiding.’ A plug of yellow mucus had formed in the boy’s nostril and was bubbling in and out of the cavity as he spoke. ‘And when he’s told them, they’re going to hang him.’
I fixed on his eyes and ignored his nose. ‘Which direction did they go in?’
The mucus had now escaped the boy’s nostril and was descending onto his upper lip like a yellow slug. ‘They went in all directions. To every corner of the estate.’
I could almost have growled with frustration. There was no chance I could stop a search party that had scattered so widely. It was better to wait here, and intervene once they had dragged Barrow back to the village. I suddenly felt hungry and exhausted.
The boy looked at me warily. ‘Are you unwell, sire?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. And then, before he could ask after my health again, I dismissed him with the wave I had been practising. The merest flick of my fingers, flavoured with a pinch of ennui. Such behaviour was not in my true nature, but since inheriting this estate I had discovered such condescending gestures were expected of me, and this wave of my hand certainly had the desired effect upon the boy. He bolted away as if I had threatened to stab him with the trident of Poseidon.
Now alone, I stood in the street for a while, but the cold air crept through the weave of my tunic and threatened a full assault upon my skin. I couldn’t risk going back to my home in case I missed the returning party, but equally I could not stay here. I dithered for a while, before deciding to call upon my tenant Joan Bath. She, at least, would not be part of this senseless mob.
Joan had taken over the tenancy of her father’s cottage the previous July, after the old man had died suddenly. Previously this home had been little more than a dirty hovel, and I had been reluctant to visit. Flies had circled the chamber like winged imps, and it had been difficult to find a clear patch of floor to stand upon, such was the confusion of old boots, broken tools, and animal bones scattered about the place. But, as Joan opened the door and welcomed me inside, I saw an altogether different home. Clear of her father’s debris, the cottage could almost be described as comfortable. A polished oak table extended against the length of one wall, and a blackened cauldron hung over the fire, which was lit. Nevertheless, the chamber smelt pleasant, and was not overly choked with smoky fumes.
Joan ushered me to a bench beside the table and set down a cup of ale – her manner as brusque as ever. You might think she was entertaining a friend of her son’s or even a passing peddler. ‘What are you doing here then?’ she asked. ‘I don’t see you very often these days.’
I sipped the malty ale. ‘I’m waiting to stop a hanging.’
‘John Barrow?’
I nodded. ‘The fools in the village say he’s hiding a murderous bird.’ I snorted. ‘They’re calling it a butcher bird.’
Before I could say any more, she put her finger to her mouth. Walking behind the wooden screen that separated the cottage into two chambers, she chased out her two young sons. They dashed through the door, with instructions from their mother to count the family’s sheep. Once Joan was certain they were not still hanging around, she drew a stool up beside me, giving me a chance to study her face at close range. It was as severe as when I had first met her, though perhaps there was a little more fat on her cheeks? Her long black hair was no longer loose about her neck – now it was held behind a modest veil that also covered her neck and chin. Some said she only sold sheep these days, though others claimed that sheep were nothing more than a front for her other busine
ss. The profession that had kept food on her table for the years before the Plague. For those people a whore would always be a whore, no matter how hard she might work to become somebody else.
For my part, I didn’t care what she did to make a living. Joan paid her rent on time, her sons performed their duties on the demesne, and there was never any cause to fine her in the manorial court. She was a successful woman, which was probably the main complaint against her. I noted an embroidered wall hanging in the second chamber, and a crusader chest, carved from oak and wrapped in iron bands. Not an item of furniture owned by most people in this village.
She took a gulp of her own ale. ‘You sure Barrow’s innocent?’
‘Of course I am. How could a man sire a murdering bird with his dead wife?’
She slowly wiped the froth from her top lip. ‘I didn’t mean that part of the story. You sure he didn’t kill the baby himself?’
This possibility hadn’t occurred to me. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘The man struggles with the loss of his wife and children to the Pestilence.’ She heaved a sigh and stretched her back. ‘But I don’t suppose his howling reaches you at the manor house.’ I pulled a face. This was the usual accusation thrown at me when I refused to fine Barrow for his nightly caterwauling. ‘He keeps the whole village awake with his lamentations,’ she said. ‘With cries so cold and empty. Who knows what malice lies in his heart?’
‘But would he kill another man’s child and push her body into a bush? I don’t believe so. He might be mad, but not demonic.’
‘So who did it then? A demon?’
‘Of course not.’ I sat up straight to give her the impression that I meant my words. ‘I intend to find out.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Shouldn’t the constable investigate?’
I thought of our new constable. A lazy incompetent who didn’t care to travel to Somershill from Tonbridge unless the weather was fine and he was served roasted meat at our table. ‘No. I’ll take care of this. It’s too delicate to leave to the constable. I can report the case to the next Hundreds court myself.’