by S. D. Sykes
‘We came through Bromley,’ said Mary, adamantly.
‘Don’t lie to me, Mary. I saw the scars upon the infant’s head.’
‘It wasn’t Rab,’ she insisted.
I pointed to the bird. ‘Take off its hood.’ Mary didn’t move, so I shouted again. ‘Take off its hood!’ She approached the bird with some reluctance, and untied the small leather cap that covered the creature’s skull. Sure enough, a fierce eagle looked back at me, with a great crest of feathers upon his head. ‘It’s just as the child’s mother described,’ I said. ‘A bird with a crown.’
Eloise gave a huff. ‘Enough, Oswald. The girls have told you they didn’t go to this inn.’
‘The bird must be destroyed,’ I said.
Eloise repeated the huff. This time with even greater consternation. ‘Absolutely not. I will not allow it.’ The girls ran to her side. ‘The bird is precious to Mary and Rebecca. A keepsake from Versey.’ Then she placed her arms round her nieces’ shoulders. ‘Heaven knows, they have nothing else left to inherit from their father.’
‘Their bird has killed one child, Eloise. I cannot allow it to strike again.’
‘You will not harm their bird.’
An unexpected feeling of hatred rose in my chest. ‘It’s a murderer. Trained to kill its prey.’
She folded her arms. ‘What would you know about falconry?’ she said mockingly. ‘Did they teach you about such sport at the monastery?’ Then she cocked her head and looked at me with her green eyes. Her pupils large in the poor light. ‘Perhaps you should have stayed at the abbey. Because you are still a novice, aren’t you,’ she scoffed. ‘In so many ways.’
I took her meaning well enough. I had been an inexperienced lover, it’s true. But I had made a good enough attempt at the job – and our lovemaking had seemed a success – from my point of view anyway.The girls couldn’t possibly have understood the sarcasm of her remark, but now all three of them laughed, and to my shame, my response to this ribbing was a greater desire to kill the bird, right there and then.
I stopped still. Emulating my sister Clemence’s trick, I counted to ten silently and then swung my cloak about my shoulder. ‘The bird cannot live.’
‘You have no evidence against it,’ said Eloise, as I brushed past her to make my exit. ‘You’re stupid,’ she called after me. ‘Just a stupid little boy.’
The words smarted in my ears as I marched towards the house. Mary caught up with me. No longer laughing, she tried to curtsy in front of me as I strode ahead. ‘Please Uncle. Don’t kill Rab. He’s caught lambs before, but he would never attack a baby.’
I walked on, but she pursued me.
‘I nursed poor Rab back from death. Father starved him and pulled out his feathers.’
‘The bird is a killer, Mary. I cannot let it live.’
‘Please, Uncle. Don’t kill him.’
I pushed her away.
It was easy enough to find an axe, near the kitchens. I returned to the byre immediately. My heart beat strongly and my legs did not feel entirely my own, but I knew what I had to do.
Eloise watched my approach from the door and tried to stand in my way. When I pushed through, she grasped my arm. ‘Not now, Oswald.’
‘Don’t make this difficult.’ Did she believe that I was enjoying the prospect of killing this bird? Mary and Rebecca were lying in front of its perch, sobbing like mourners at a grave. This was the most unpleasant of tasks.
Eloise would not release my arm. ‘I’m sorry for what I said before. But please, don’t do it now,’ she whispered. ‘Not in front of the girls. It’s too cruel.’
I shoved her away. ‘Then when?’
‘I’ll instruct a servant to kill the bird. Tonight. When the girls are in bed.’
I dropped the axe a little. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If you don’t trust me, then you may see the bird’s body in the morning.’ I hesitated. Could I trust her? ‘This is my house, Oswald,’ she said, her face hardening. ‘You must respect my decision.’
I looked at Mary and Rebecca’s sobbing bodies. Their wailing rang about the byre. Eloise was right in one respect. It was cruel to kill this bird in front of two such young girls. I would respect Eloise’s decision. But only for their sake, not hers.
As I sat in my bedchamber, my own bedchamber, I made the decision that our party had stayed in this place long enough. It had been lust, rather than love that had drawn me to Eloise, and at that very moment I determined never to speak to the woman again. Her words still stung like the bite of a hornet. I would inspect the bird’s dead body the next morning, and then we would leave.
I didn’t see Eloise or the girls for the rest of the day, though she knocked three times at my door and begged to speak with me. Each time she knocked, I hid my head beneath the bedclothes and tried not to think about her breasts, or the soft skin between her legs. Instead I remained silent, and dwelled upon the feathered killer that she and her nieces harboured in the byre. To think I had discounted the possibility that an actual bird existed. I had been foolish and slack in my investigations. I had not listened properly to my witnesses, too easily dismissing their sightings as delusions. I could only be thankful for one mercy. At least I had discovered the bird before it killed again.
Eventually I fell asleep, and at dawn, there was another knock at my door. At first I thought it might be Eloise with a further apology, so I shouted for her to go away. Another voice answered however, and when I opened the door I found my visitor to be the haughty servant, regarding me like a piece of dried dung that needed scooping up and taking to the tanners.
‘Yes?’ I said, in as condescending a manner as was possible. ‘What do you want?’
‘There is a message for you, my lord.’
This seemed unlikely at this time of day. ‘From where?’
‘The country, I believe.’ He coughed. ‘Simple Hill, is it?’
‘Do you mean Somershill?’
He smiled. ‘Of course, sire. Somershill.The messenger arrived last night.’
‘So why didn’t you rouse me?’
The servant bowed his head. ‘We didn’t know where to find you, sire. You are not usually in your own bedchamber.’
I dressed quickly and followed the servant to the kitchens, finding the messenger in question to be my stableboy, Piers. He was perched on a shelf in a corner, where he had spent the night sleeping against the wall. In the opposite corner were Edwin and Ada, sleeping together in an awkward embrace. I noted immediately that Edwin’s hand was resting inside Ada’s kirtle. It seemed I had not been the only person to experience an affair of the heart this past week.
Piers was dirtier than ever. His hair was ruffled and sticking up like the tufted ears of a squirrel. I will admit to being embarrassed that this boy was associated with the de Lacy household, given the wildness of his appearance. It was clear the haughty servant felt likewise, as he woke the boy with a kick before quickly leaving, as if the boy might give him fleas.
Piers burst into life, his enthusiasm irrepressible. ‘Sire. I saw London Bridge! I even stopped to pray at the chapel. And the tower is as white as they say, though I could not hear the lions roar.’ ‘What?’ I still hadn’t fully woken up, and the words had fallen out of the boy’s mouth in a tumble.
‘Geoffrey said I would never see London Bridge. But I did, sire.’
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Enough, Piers. What is this message you have for me?’
Piers fumbled about in his belt pouch and produced a roll of parchment bound with a red ribbon, and fastened with my sister’s seal.
I held it to my nose before unravelling it, noting the smell of Somershill, the slightly musty and sweet scent of hay and horses. Suddenly I felt sad and homesick. I settled myself in a corner and broke the seal.
Somershill Manor
3rd May 1351
Dear Brother,
I hope this letterfinds you at the correct house.We received a letterfrom Eloise Cooper just after you had l
eft Somershill, informing us that Mary and Rebecca de Caburn were in her care and giving directions to her house in London. I am assuming you have found her, since we have received no news from your party.
My news is this.You must cut your visit to London and return to Somershill without the slightest delay. Another infant from the village has been discovered in the bushes of a blackthorn and is assumed murdered. She was a baby girl – only a few days old. I don’t know her name, but her mother is the widow Christina Beard.
I would not trouble you with this matter, but it has caused a great disturbance on the estate. John Barrow – the man to whom you insisted upon giving sanctuary – escaped from the north-west tower only hours before the child’s disappearance. There is uproar amongst our tenants and you are blamed entirely for protecting this man, who was clearly always a murdering lunatic. I still cannot imagine why you did such a thing – though you will no doubt argue that it was kindness that motivated such a foolish act.You harboured a child murderer in our house, when there was a child in our own family. Or perhaps you do not care for the safety of my own child, Henry? Sometimes I wonder at your mental capacities.
But you should not think me your biggest critic. That person is Thomas Tulley, the father of the frst murdered infant, and he rallies the men about him and they storm through the village on their horses like the four riders of the Apocalypse. While they search for John Barrow, there is not a fragment of work being done on theirfarms, not a penny of rent is being paid and the demesne might as well be the wilderness of Judea. I half expect to find a wandering penitent whenever I leave the house and walk into the fields. Your reeve Featherby is unable to discipline or quell their rebellion, and now I hear nothing but mention of the butcher bird about the house. The servants are in a frenzy of fear and will shoot an arrow at anything with feathers. It is an intolerable situation. I may not walk about my own meadow for fear of being shot by my own staff.
By now her writing was becoming smaller and smaller, so she might include as many rebukes and warnings as possible onto this square of parchment.
I do not know what delays you in London Brother, but you must return to solve this problem. If you do not arrive within the week, I shall be forced to appeal to the earl.
Your loving sister Clemence
Addendum. I should also tell you that I have prevented the murdered infant from being buried. Given that you are now the family’s great investigator, I assumed you would want to inspect her dead body? She is currently kept in the cool of the cellar at Somershill. But if you do not return with haste, then I shall release her to the priest before her poor decaying body releases its foul miasma.
I read the letter again. And then again. As if hoping the words might change. But, of course, they didn’t. I felt sick and put my head between my knees.
When I sat up again, I saw my groom Edwin standing in front of me. ‘Are you unwell, sire?You look very pale.’
Of course I was pale. I was ready to heave the contents of my stomach upon the floor. The killer of Catherine Tulley was not some ragged eagle that my nieces kept in an outhouse. It was a madman. A monster. A man I had protected in my own home.
Clemence was right to chastise me. I was no great investigator, or I would have smelt the poison beneath this man’s skin. Instead my skills had proved no more effective at drawing out this abscess than a poultice made of cold butter.
Edwin asked again after my health.
‘I need to get back to Somershill,’ I told him.
He stood to attention. ‘Today?’
‘Yes.’
He seemed flustered. ‘Very well, sire. I’ll start getting our party ready.’
I took him to one side, before looking about me. Ada was still sleeping, and the rest of the kitchen was empty of servants. I only heard some commotion in the distance as the household began to prepare for the day ahead.
‘I’ll go alone,’ I told Edwin. ‘I need to travel quickly.’
‘But what of your mother, sire? And the de Caburn sisters? I hear they are to return with us to Somershill.’
It seemed that little was secret from a house full of servants. ‘You must stay here and bring them all back when Mother has fully recovered.’
The idea of travelling with my mother, but without my presence, was clearly concerning him. ‘I heard my lady was walking now,’ he said. ‘And yesterday she was singing. Everybody heard her.’ Unfortunately this was true. Mother had been singing with the window open, and had attracted a crowd in the street below. Sensing an audience, Mother had sung even louder until a rotten apple was thrown through the casement and burst open on the floor. Mother had slammed the shutters and called them all philistines, but this performance had, nonetheless, demonstrated that the woman was recovering from the certain death she had been predicting.
‘Is it safe for you to travel alone, sire?’ asked Edwin, in some desperation.
‘Yes. I’ll use the Bromley road this time. It will be busy with pilgrims, now that spring is here.’
He sighed. ‘Very well, sire.’
I went to my bedchamber and dressed properly for a journey, making sure I had enough money on my person. Deciding not to wake Mother with the news, for fear of some interference, I went to Eloise’s chamber and knocked softly on the door. I was not relishing the next conversation, but I thought it only polite to say goodbye. However, she did not answer my knocking, and when I took the liberty of opening the door to her chamber, I found that her bed was empty.
I sought out the haughty servant in the kitchen. ‘Where is your mistress?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘She’s not in the house?’
‘No.’
‘You are sure?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Yes. I saw her leave myself.’
I frowned. ‘Where’s she gone at this time of the morning?’
He scratched his ear and then exchanged a grin with a pretty maid to my left. ‘Nobody knows, sire.’
I didn’t have the time for such furtiveness. ‘When will she return?’ This question was met with yet another shrug. ‘But I have to leave immediately.’
‘Would you like me to give my mistress a message?’ he asked.
I thought about this for no longer than a moment. ‘No thank you. Get me a pen and ink and something to write upon,’ I told him. My tone was firm and short, and he did as I requested – soon returning with a poorly cut quill, a square of dusty parchment, and a pot of lamp black ink that was so watered down I might have been writing a letter for a spy to decipher by firelight.
And then I wondered what to write to Eloise. My mind was suddenly a blank. Should this be an apology about the bird? A fond farewell? Should I be honourable and offer to write again? After all I had spent the week in her bed, even though she had called me a stupid little boy. My hand started to write such words, but I quickly crossed them out, for I didn’t mean a single syllable of them. The week had been an unexpected first exploration into the pleasures of a woman’s body – but now, faced with a reason to leave, I was pleased of it. I wanted to be gone from this house before Eloise returned, from wherever it was she went at this time of the morning. So I left the parchment empty of words. I gathered up my possessions and walked into the street to retrace my steps to Southwark.
I left the Cooper house as the May sun was beginning to warm the streets. I pulled up my hood and paced along the Strand towards Fleet Street, joining the early-morning crowds as they moved with urgency towards Ludgate and the markets of the city. It was then that I realised something was scampering along behind me. I speeded up, but it continued to follow me until I turned around to see my pursuer was none other than Mother’s little dog, Hector. His coat was wet and sticky, and pasted in muddy clumps – but he was as pleased to see me as I was to see him. I picked him up, despite the smelliness of his fur, and let him lick my hand. Just the once.
As we fondly reacquainted ourselves, something in the distance, towards Ludga
te Prison, caught my eye. A figure was approaching with a lithe and graceful gait. I knew it could be nobody else, despite the thick furs about her body. It was Eloise, the very last person I wanted to meet. I would tell you I called out for her, in order to explain my sudden departure, but instead I took the absconder’s option and quickly ran up a dark alley beside St Clement’s Well and hid with my back against the wall.
When I was sure she had passed, I watched her progress back along the Strand towards her home, and now realised that she was not alone. Instead she appeared to be conversing with two companions. One was an adult – most probably a man, given his style of walking – and the other was a child. But it was impossible to say more, given that they both wore long, cloaked gowns with hoods.
I should have followed them. It would have conveyed this story to a quicker end, but instead I put Hector to the floor and hurried past Saint Paul’s and over London Bridge – happy to make my escape from London and reach the inn at Southwark.
The miserable widow opened the decrepit door to me. ‘So you’re back then,’ she said, sucking at her few remaining teeth with her tongue, as if they might give up some leftover food from breakfast.
‘Where’s Geoffrey?’ I said.
Now she gave a small snort. ‘The boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘He disappeared. The day after you left him here.’
‘What?’
‘Said he was going off to see London Bridge. And that he’d be straight back.’ Now she picked at a gap between her teeth with a fingernail, before running her finger around her gums. ‘Never saw him again.’
I felt a rage brewing. ‘But I told him to stay with the horses.’ Hector broke out in a sympathetic growl.
The widow removed the crooked finger from her mouth. ‘Don’t blame me. I’m not the boy’s nursemaid.’ Then she pointed at Hector. ‘He’s not going to bite me, is he?’
I ignored this question. ‘You should have sent me a message.’
She continued to look warily at Hector, and began to close the door. ‘A message about what?’