by S. D. Sykes
At first the crowd didn’t move.
‘Go on. Get back to your fields. And if Lord Somershill reports another such disturbance, I will have each one of you flogged!’ Then he pointed for the last time at Tulley. ‘And you. You will be
We closed the door and returned to the dais, where Mother was waiting for us. ‘What did those people want, Oswald?’ she asked me. In truth, I was surprised that she hadn’t involved herself in the commotion at the door. Instead she had preferred to remain at the table and enjoy the company of the young squires. Their pewter cups were once again full of wine.
‘They wanted John Barrow,’ I told her.
‘Who?’
I sat down with a sigh. ‘Never mind. Master Hatcher has just informed me that he’s seen Mary and Rebecca de Caburn.’
Mother turned her attention to the earl’s steward, who was continuing his meal, as if the affray by the door had never happened. ‘Really? Is this true Edward?’
He bowed his head to Mother. ‘They’re in London, my lady. At the household of Eloise Cooper.’
Mother flung up her arms at this news. ‘With Walter de Caburn’s sister? And how did they get there? We’ve been searching for that wicked pair for days.’
Hatcher shrugged and said nothing. Instead one of his squires answered the question. It was the boy who had previously performed the chicken dance. ‘The story is the talk of London, my lady. How two young girls were mistreated by the de Lacys and had to run away to their aunt.’
‘You might have mentioned this earlier,’ I said.
He scratched his stupid head. ‘We thought you knew, my lord.’ He then smiled to my mother. ‘Of course I didn’t believe a word of such a tale, my lady. I’m sure they were treated with the utmost kindness by you.’
Mother was no longer charmed by this boy. ‘What ungrateful little devils those girls are. Spreading such stories about the de Lacy family. I do hope such lies have not reached the king’s ears.’
Hatcher put his hands upon the table and thereby wrested all attention back to himself. ‘I would doubt so, my lady. I’m sure he has more pressing concerns.’
‘Well let them stay in London,’ said Mother with a flourish. ‘If that’s what the two little hobgoblins want. Their behaviour was quite atrocious, Edward.’ She wiped a false tear from her cheek. ‘Their feral habits quite blackened my bile.’
Hatcher spoke with a mouth full of bread. ‘I understand, my lady. Children can be trying.’ Then he sucked his teeth for a moment. ‘I would say only this. Is it wise to let them remain with such a woman as Mistress Cooper?’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked. ‘Are the girls in some sort of danger?’
Hatcher rotated his head slowly to look at me. Like an owl, his body remained perfectly still. ‘It’s only rumours and gossip. Perhaps nothing more.’ He then rotated his head back and returned to pulling apart a hunk of bread. ‘I wouldn’t want my own daughters living there.’
‘I think you should explain yourself,’ I said, now irritated. There was no need to draw out this explanation in such a frustrating manner, other than to rile me deliberately. I would tell you that my displeasure provoked an immediate response from the man, but he only gestured towards the chicken-dancing squire, indicating that his own mouth was now too full of food to speak.
The boy adopted the faux solemnity of a saint. ‘They say Eloise Cooper practises sorcery.’
Mother’s mouth fell open. ‘A witch?’
The squire nodded. ‘Indeed, my lady.’ He turned to the other squires. ‘We’ve all heard that story, haven’t we?’The other boys nodded silently, suddenly mute and seemingly not willing even to speak aloud on the subject.
‘I don’t believe in witches,’ I told them, unable to hold my tongue.
I might as well have announced that I didn’t believe in God. The squire looked uneasy. ‘But what about Eloise Cooper’s daughter then, my lord? She was poisoned by her own mother. Only a witch would do such a thing.’
I let out a small laugh. What mother poisons her own child? ‘And this is a widely held opinion, is it? That Mistress Cooper is a witch?’
The squire scratched his chin. ‘Well yes, sire. It is.’
‘I think even witches baulk at killing their own children.’
‘It was when Master Cooper died. She didn’t want to be bothered with the child, did she?’ He once again looked to his fellow squires for a flurry of corroborating nods. ‘And Master Cooper’s death was strange enough.’
‘In what way?’
‘He died so quickly, sire. One day he was well, and the next he .was dead. They say his body was covered in boils.’
I huffed. ‘Sounds exactly like the Plague to me.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no. More like witch blight.’
Now I groaned. ‘Has Eloise Cooper been charged with witchcraft?’
The boy scratched his neck. ‘Well, no, sire. She hasn’t.’
‘Then this is just idle talk.’
Hatcher stood up, dusting the breadcrumbs from his lap and letting out a belch. ‘My lord. It’s up to you whether or not to believe the story. The de Caburn sisters are wards of this family, after all. So if you are happy to leave them with such a woman, then that is your decision.’ He looked to his men and bade them rise with his hands.
As the party left Somershill, he took me to one side. ‘Thank you for cleaning my ear, my lord.’
My skin prickled.
He tapped his ear and smiled. ‘Now that I can hear so well, I shall make sure to report your exact words to the earl.’
The departing group cantered about the courtyard in a great salute, causing Mother to squeal with delight at the speed of their horses and the spectacle of their billowing capes. The foolish woman then stared at them until they disappeared into the woods, and sighed as sadly as a child who is waving goodbye to a travelling fair. ‘Edward Hatcher does so remind me of your father.’ Then she broke her distant gaze and looked to me. ‘Well.The man you thought was your father.’
I took her arm. ‘Come with me, Mother. We need to talk to Clemence.’
‘Why’s that, Oswald?’
‘We need to discuss the de Caburn sisters.’
She screwed up her eyes. ‘Why?’
‘They’ve run away to London, and we need to get them back.’
‘Oh,’ she said vaguely. ‘Have they?’
Chapter Thirteen
Clemence refused to come into the solar to speak with us, as she was nursing baby Henry.
‘But it’s urgent,’ I said, standing by the door to the ladies’ bedchamber and making sure not to look inside.
‘Nothing is more urgent than feeding a hungry infant, Oswald,’ she said. ‘If it’s so important, come in.’
‘But—’
‘For goodness sake, Oswald. My breasts are covered.’
‘Very well,’ I said, and then sidled into the room, pressing Mother to enter before me. When Clemence saw Mother was my companion, she let out a groan. ‘You didn’t tell me that she would be here as well.’
Mother shielded her eyes, as if hiding from a leper. ‘Thank goodness nobody knows about this. A de Lacy child sucking at the breast of his own mother.’
‘Be quiet,’ hissed Clemence. ‘You’ll upset Henry.’
Mother shook her head again in disgust. ‘Your breasts should have been bound weeks ago to stop your milk. Then you could be looking for a new husband.’
Now Clemence laughed. Bitterly. ‘What makes you think I want a husband, Mother?’
Mother pointed to Humbert, who stood in the shadows like a sentinel. ‘Well you can’t spend the rest of your life with this clod in your bedchamber, can you? While you’re sitting around Somershill, like an old maid.’
‘Why not? You do.’
Mother inhaled loudly and Clemence clenched her teeth. A hostile silence seethed, so I quickly took a seat and tugged at Mother’s sleeve to force her sit down next to me.
‘Will you stop pushing
and pulling me about, Oswald?’ she whispered. ‘I’m not a dog on a lead.’
Clemence made a point of finishing feeding her baby before she would speak to us. She passed Henry to Humbert and rearranged her gown. ‘So what’s this urgent matter then?’
As Humbert rocked Henry, the baby looked ready to posset his latest feed onto the floor, so I spoke quickly, and kept clear of any likely trajectory. ‘We know where Mary and Becky are. Edward Hatcher told us.’
‘They’re alive then?’ I wasn’t able to decipher any sentiment from this statement. Her voice was flat.
‘Yes. They ran away to London.’
Clemence now dropped her indifference. ‘London? Goodness me. How did they get so far?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘And where are they living?’
‘With their aunt, Eloise.’
Clemence’s face whitened and she was about to answer, when Mother decided to butt in. ‘And everybody in London is saying you abused the girls, Clemence. That’s why they ran away. I’m told your name is as black as tar.’
I once again shoved the foolish woman, despite her previous protests at being treated like a dog. ‘That’s not true, Mother. If they’re saying anything, then they are blaming all of us.’
‘Yes. But it’s mainly Clemence,’ she whispered hoarsely.
I expected Clemence to erupt, but instead my sister stood up and marched to the window, where she appeared to be counting to ten. When her shoulders dropped and her breathing finally slowed, she turned to Humbert. ‘Take Henry into the garden, please. But keep away from the moat. The air there is too damp for his chest.’
Humbert wrapped the small child in a woollen shawl and descended the staircase, though we soon heard Henry open his lungs in fury at being separated from his mother. Thankfully Humbert carried on into the garden and did not return.
When Henry’s pitiful wails had receded far into the distance, Clemence addressed me, making a concerted effort not to look in Mother’s direction. ‘How do you know Mary and Rebecca are really in London?’ she said. Mother tried to answer, but Clemence held her hand up to Mother’s face and continued to stare at me. ‘Can we trust the story?’
I shrugged. ‘I think so. It seems an odd story for somebody to make up.’
Mother peeped around Clemence’s hand. ‘But people will say anything to cause trouble for the de Lacy family. They like to demean us in front of the king.’
Clemence’s hand tightened to a fist. ‘Oh be quiet Mother. Nobody cares about the de Lacy family. Especially not the king.’
Mother pushed the fist away. ‘Your grandfather built this house so the king would visit. To hunt in our forests.’
Clemence laughed. ‘But he never has, has he?’
I stood up in an attempt to end their squabbling. ‘I’ll go to London,’ I said. ‘I’ll check on the girls’welfare and then try to bring them home.’
My announcement silenced them. But only for a moment. ‘Thank you Oswald,’ said Clemence. ‘That’s a good idea.’ I will admit this enthusiasm surprised me, since I thought my sister might happily let the girls remain with their aunt.
Mother flared her nostrils and threw Clemence a vicious glare. ‘Very good Oswald. You, at least, will protect the good name of this family.’
Sensing the embers of this squabble would reignite into flames at any moment, I quickly asked, ‘What do we know about Eloise Cooper?’
Clemence shifted awkwardly on her seat. ‘I’ve not met her.’ Then she hesitated. ‘Though I’ve heard certain things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘That the woman is a witch of course,’ said Mother. ‘A sorceress.’
Clemence frowned. (No. That wasn’t the story. And I’d thank you not to speak for me, Mother.’
‘Then what did you hear?’ I asked.
Clemence began to chew a nail. ‘That she’s . . . cruel, I suppose.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Clemence blushed and looked towards the window. In the distance we could still hear Henry’s thin wails as his large protector carried him about the garden. ‘She was my husband’s sister,’ said Clemence. Her voice was now soft and wearied. ‘So, yes. I do.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘Her husband was a rich merchant, so I expect they lived near Saint Paul’s.’
Mother flapped her hands. ‘No, no. The Coopers don’t live near Saint Paul’s. They could afford it of course, but William Cooper wouldn’t part with the money to buy in such a street. Not even when his new wife demanded it.’
This was an unexpected revelation on Mother’s part. ‘How do you know this?’ I asked.
‘Everybody knows that William Cooper was one of the richest free men in London.’ Then she gave one of her contemptuous laughs. ‘No wonder the de Caburn family arranged for their daughter to marry him. Though he was no more highly born than a hayward.’ She held out her pale fingers and then pinched at the loose skin on the back of one of her hands. ‘Mind you, Eloise Cooper deserved no better. She was a very cunning girl.’
Before I could ask more, Mother stood up and began to bustle about the room. ‘Now. We should prepare for our visit to London, Oswald. Where’s Ada? I need her to pack my trunk.’
Clemence and I exchanged looks of dismay. ‘You can’t go to London, Mother,’ I said. ‘You’re too . . .’
‘Too . . . What?’ said Mother, distractedly, as she searched for something beneath the bed.
‘You’re too old for such a journey,’ said Clemence.
Mother lay on the floor and began to burrow under the bedstead. ‘Nonsense. I’m stronger than many women half my age. And you might come yourself, Clemence, if you hadn’t saddled vourself with a nursing infant.’
‘I’ve no desire to go to London,’ said Clemence. ‘The place is a stinking latrine. I’ve heard the dead of the Pestilence still float in the Thames.’
Mother reappeared with a shoe. It was old, with a wooden sole, and clearly not what she had been looking for at all, since she threw it back under the bed. ‘Nonsense. The Plague is over.’
Clemence sneezed from all the dust Mother had dislodged. ‘You hope it is.’
Mother waved away this warning, grabbed a stool and then stood on it to see if the object of her search was hiding on top of the bed canopy. ‘We don’t need your company, Clemence. Oswald and I shall go alone.’
‘There’s no need for you to accompany me to London, Mother,’ I said, holding out my hand to steady her, since she was now wobbling on her stool.
She waved away my concern. ‘Of course there is. I know where the Coopers live. And how else will you find your way about the city?’
‘I can easily hire a guide.’
‘No, no. Those men are all thieves and fraudsters.’ Then she leaned out, even further across the canopy, nearly falling onto the mattress. ‘Ah here it is.’ She passed me a small leather pouch. ‘Guides should never be trusted, Oswald. They will lead you up an alley and then their associates will assault you. Everybody knows that.’
I helped Mother down from the stool, whereupon she emptied the contents of the leather pouch onto the bed. I would tell you that something useful fell out, such as a handful of golden coins. Instead it was three ancient ivory dice – yellowed and lined with dirt.
Mother clasped them up in her hand. ‘These will keep us entertained on the journey.’
I looked once again to Clemence in despair. ‘But it’s a long way, Mother. You can’t ride that far.’
‘No. Of course I can’t. But we will use Clemence’s carriage.’
I was cornered. One by one my excuses cut away. ‘But it’s very difficult to navigate the streets of London with a carriage,’ I said, trying to dampen the desperation in my voice.
Mother pulled a face. ‘Don’t be so silly, Oswald. We’ll leave the carriage at an inn in Southwark, and then we can walk over London Bridge. Or take a wherry boat across the river.’
Clemence did n
othing to assist me. I suspected that the ordeal of my visit to London with Mother was amusing her. ‘You see, little brother,’ she said. ‘You will not persuade Mother to change her mind.’
It was the first time in many months that Clemence had called me her little brother, and the slight stung like a nettle rash. ‘Mother is welcome to travel with me, thank you, Clemence,’ I lied. ‘I was merely concerned for her welfare.’
My sister smirked. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
We departed for London the following morning at daybreak. Thankfully the days were becoming longer, with a weak sun now drying the damp grass. Our party was large. I hired Edwin Stoves from the village as our groom, since Piers was too young to drive the carriage on the busy roads up to the city. Edwin was a quiet and strong young man, who could also wield a sword and fire a longbow, should we need protection from thieves and beggars. He had lost his wife and baby to the Pestilence, but unlike John Barrow, the man who was still locked up in my tower, Edwin bore his grief stoically, telling me that he was planning to remarry on our return from London. He made this arrangement sound as romantic as a trade at the horse fair, not naming the girl in question, and leading me to speculate that he didn’t, as yet, have a candidate in mind.
Mother insisted that she couldn’t travel without a lady’s maid, so Ada was nominated for the task. Ada was to sit next to Mother under the hood of the carriage, though by the sourness of Ada’s face she was as excited by the prospect of this journey as were the three horses we had harnessed ahead of us in single file. And there was nothing I could do to prevent Mother from bringing her small dog Hector. She could not travel without her dearest friend, and that was the end of it. She even packed him a small blanket and a selection of pewter bowls.
Edwin had spent the early part of the morning trying to attach Mother’s trunk to a hook beneath the carriage. This was an unnecessary affectation, since there was room for this luggage inside the carriage itself – but Mother had once seen a royal carriage with such an arrangement, and insisted on imitating the fashion. I had some difficulty in arguing that her trunk would soon catch on the ruts of the road, necessitating frequent stops whilst Edwin freed the obstruction. Eventually we persuaded Mother to allow the trunk to sit behind her and Ada, with the promise that it would be reattached to its hook when we neared London.