by S. D. Sykes
‘Geoffrey of course.’ I put my foot on the threshold, so that she could not shut the door any further.
‘Where would I have sent it to?’ she said, looking down with some disgust at my boot. ‘You didn’t tell me where you were going. Just that you’d be back the next day.’ She started to lick about her gums again. ‘Except you weren’t.’
‘I sent a message here, for Geoffrey’s attention. To advise him of our delay at Mistress Cooper’s. Did this message not arrive?’ ‘It came all right. I’ve still got it in the kitchen.’
‘Then you knew where we were staying.’
‘How would I know what it said?’
I threw up my hands in frustration. ‘Are you telling me you can’t read?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘No. Of course I don’t know’ how to read.’ She said this as if being literate were an affliction. ‘And you’re just lucky that I didn’t sell those horses. It’s cost me a lot of time to tend to them, I can tell you. What with all my other jobs.’
‘And nothing has been heard of Geoffrey since he left?’
She shook her head.
I sighed and looked to the cobwebs on the ceiling. ‘I hope he’s safe. Stupid boy.’
‘Oh don’t be concerned about him,’ she said. ‘I bet he got a better offer.’
‘Such as?’
She pursed her thin lips. ‘Well there’s plenty of grand houses on the other side of the river, needing pages and grooms. A smoothly-spoken boy like him would have no trouble in securing a good position. Even as a squire.’ Then she spoke as an aside. ‘Though in my opinion he liked his books a little too well.’
‘He should have stayed here,’ I said. ‘I told him not to leave this side of the river.’
Now she laughed, wrinkling her pitted nose in amusement. ‘There’s plenty who don’t do as they’re told any more, my lord. Haven’t you noticed? London is full of them.’ Then she made her final attempt to shut the door, before I pushed my way inside, dog and all.
I settled my bill for the care of the horses, and told the widow to expect the rest of my party in the next day. She clasped her bony hand around the coins like a clam snapping its shell, then closed the door on me with a grumble and a sigh, as if she had been somehow cheated.
I saddled Tempest and set off for Somershill, with Hector trotting along beside me. At first he seemed peeved by this arrangement, as he was used to cushions and laps – but I noticed he soon took to life as an ordinary dog, sniffing at the many delights of the London streets and pissing on every tree and corner post.
We were soon away from Southwark, and as we reached the crest of One Tree Hill I pulled on Tempest’s reins and we stopped for a short while, to look down upon London. I felt little sadness at leaving. The sky was once again as cold and white as a block of Carrara marble, whilst a layer of smoke hung over the city in a thin gauze. And through this murky haze, the great spire of Saint Paul’s reached up into the sky, alongside its many smaller daughters and sons across London, each with their thin and tapering pinnacles pointing to something in the heavens. Something that I could not see. Something that I did not believe in. And then, as I looked into this sea of humanity, I wondered where Geoffrey was – hoping, with little confidence, that he was safe.
I kicked at Tempest, and slowly the houses and inns of London gave way to the hedgerows and fields of Kent, as the blossom of the may and the nodding heads of the bluebells called me back to Somershill.
Chapter Eighteen
After a day’s journey, I saw the windows of my home across the low meadows, reflecting the evening light back at me like a wall of fiery beacons. I had left the road at Sevenoaks and travelled south-west across the Medway Valley towards Somershill. It was here, in these large and fertile fields, that I saw the true emptiness of England. Great flocks of corn buntings danced over neglected fields, landing and rooting around in the barley stubble – stubble that should have been ploughed back into the soil the previous autumn.
The estate at Somershill was equally empty of faces as I arrived, and I didn’t see anybody until opening the door to the solar, where Clemence sat next to the fire, nursing her baby. Humbert remained in his usual corner, as motionless as a watchful owl. In fact, I could tell you that the scene was exactly as I had left it.This is one of the comforts of the countryside, I find. Little changes, no matter how long you stay away. Hector was at my heels, but soon began to circle the room at speed.
‘You’re home at last,’ said Clemence, looking up from her baby’s face.
‘I came as quickly as possible.’
‘What kept you in London?’ She regarded Hector with some distaste. ‘And where’s Mother?’
‘I’ve left her at the Coopers’ house. She was taken ill.’
‘But you have her dog?’
‘It’s quite a story.’
She frowned. ‘And what about Mary and Rebecca? I thought you were bringing them with you?’
‘They’ll return with Mother. Once she’s recovered.’
Clemence removed Henry from her breast and passed the swaddled lozenge of an infant to Humbert. Henry’s face was puffed with satisfaction, and a milky bubble formed on his lips before dissolving into a long dribble.
‘Where is everybody?’ I asked.
Clemence rearranged her tunic and then turned to speak with me. ‘Searching for John Barrow.’
I winced. ‘Everybody?’
She stiffened. ‘Yes, Oswald. A child murderer is on the loose. Wouldn’t you expect the whole village to be searching for him?’ She looked to Henry, who now rested over Humbert’s immense shoulder and slept like a she-cat. ‘Or don’t you care about children?’
It was a ridiculous assertion, which I dismissed by pulling one of my most withering stares, though I don’t believe my sister noticed. ‘Is the dead infant still in the cellar?’ I asked quickly.
Clemence shuddered. ‘Yes. She is. Poor thing.’
‘Can I see her now?’
‘Don’t you want some supper first? You’ve been travelling all day.’
I shook my head and then laid my hand upon her arm. ‘Just tell me. How did Barrow escape? I left instructions for the northwest tower to be kept locked.’
She shook me off with some irritation. ‘I don’t know. He must have picked the lock. He’s not as mad as he pretends.’
‘Did the priest help him?’
She screwed up her nose at this suggestion. ‘Father Luke? Why do you say that?’
‘I caught him whispering with John Barrow. In the days before I left for London.’
She gave a mocking laugh. ‘Well. Father Luke must be involved then. If he was discovered whispering.’
‘I just want to know if he visited John Barrow in the days before he escaped?’
She folded her arms. ‘Why? So you can blame this whole calamity on a priest?’
‘No,’ I said, perhaps a little too defensively.
She looked me up and down. ‘This problem is of your own making, Oswald. You should have listened to the people in the village.They told you John Barrow was to blame.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not how my father would have behaved.’
This was yet another of her taunts that no de Lacy blood flowed in my veins. ‘I was trying to help Barrow, Clemence,’ I said, flopping upon a bench. ‘I thought he was innocent.’
Clemence ignored this statement and walked to the door. ‘Come on. Let me show you the corpse. Then the child can be buried at least.’
She picked up a candle and led me down the stairs towards the cellar. ‘I had to insist upon a delayed burial,’ she told me, as our feet touched the cold stone steps that led into the void beneath the house. ‘The baby’s mother was distraught at the suggestion, and would only cooperate when I threatened her with a fine.’
‘Thank you, Clemence.’
She stopped for a moment and looked at me – seemingly embarrassed at my gratitude, as if a drop of my appreciation might somehow taint her. ‘Yes. Well, I know how much you like
to prod around at dead bodies,’ she said tartly, before carrying on again down the stairs. ‘Though it’s fortunate you returned today, as Gilbert has been complaining at the smell down here. He says the whole cellar is becoming infected by the foul odour and will spoil the brandy.’ This sounded exactly like the sort of warning Gilbert would give. Pessimistic and impossible.
Clemence opened the heavy door of the cellar and passed me the candle, but didn’t put her own foot over the threshold.
‘You’re not coming in?’ I asked.
‘No.’ A shiver ran through her body. ‘The child is in the corner. On a stone slab to keep cool.’ She held her nose, though there was no stench, other than the musty damp that crept about this room like a thief. ‘I’ll wait for you upstairs, Oswald.’ She then clattered up the steps in an enormous haste that brought on a fit of coughing.
I soon found the infant’s body, wrapped in clean linen. Taking a deep breath, I pulled back the strips to find a small and bloated face, framed by a shock of wet and black hair. She was truly a newborn, for when I removed the linen across her stomach the stump of the cord was still attached to the knot at her belly button, already green and stinking.
I held the candle over her abdomen and looked for the signs of murder. But I saw nothing, apart from a line of dried vomit at her mouth and the scratches upon her skin where her naked body had been thrust into the thorns. Perhaps the pitiful little girl had died of exposure to the cold, since it was only early in May and the winds were still icy and harsh. A person need only put a baby outside in such weather and the infant would be dead within a few short hours. Every midwife knew to wrap a newborn in blankets and keep a fire burning so that the child could settle to the climate of the world outside his mother’s womb.
Examining the body, I tried to imagine why John Barrow had done this. Why had he stolen a newly born child from the warmth of her home, stripped her naked, and impaled her upon a bush? This was not madness. It was depravity.
I wrapped up the child, not wanting to look again upon her wrinkled face, and then I slumped to the floor, with my head in my hands. But what purpose did this remorse serve? It was nothing more than self-reproach, even self-pity. I got to my feet again. I picked up the child, and made for the village.
* * *
I took her to the priest’s house, as I wanted Father Luke to look upon her face.To see her bloated wretchedness. Just as I had. He was entangled somehow in this tale. I was sure of it.
I rapped with some force at the priest’s door, though the hermit must have heard my approach, since Tempest’s hooves pound at the soil like hammers. In my arms I held a sack, containing the dead child.
His servant opened the door. The toothless man who had warned me about the bird at my last visit. I pushed my way in. ‘Where is your master?’
Father Luke crept out from a corner of the room. ‘My lord. I didn’t expect you.’
‘You say that every time I see you. Should I provide a week’s notice?’
He stared at me for a few moments, as if my words had made no sense. Then he folded his body into a cringing bow, before shooing his servant out of the room. ‘Bring some ale and cheese for Lord Somershill. Quickly.’
‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ I said. ‘I’m here to discuss John Barrow.’
He bristled. ‘Have they found the man?’
‘No. Do you know where he is?’
He shook his head. ‘No, sire. I do not.’ He looked at me for a moment, then cast his eyes back to the floor. The man quaked. His eyelid twitched like a dowsing rod.
I opened my sack and presented him with the dead child, now bound up in her linen strips.
He recoiled. ‘Sire?’
The smell of her bodily decay was evident in this hot and stuffy chamber. The odour of a carcass on the turn. I pulled back a strip of linen to reveal her face. ‘You should recognise her, I think. Did you baptise her recently?’
He withdrew a little, trying to hide his eyes with a pair of delicate hands. ‘Yes. Her name is Margaret Beard.’
‘And yet now she’s dead. Just as Catherine Tulley died. Immediately after baptism.’
His hands fell slightly. He stuttered. ‘I . . . er.’ He hesitated, suddenly aware he was caught at the centre of some accusation. ‘It’s nothing more than coincidence.’ Flecks of sweat glistened on his greasy forehead. ‘I baptise many infants. Most are still alive.’
‘Have you baptised any others recently?’
He opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again.
‘ So Catherine and Margaret were the only two infants born in the village in recent weeks?’
He drew himself up in an attempt to sound assured, but still wouldn’t look me in the eye. ‘Yes. That’s correct.’
I passed the child to him, making sure he did not flinch from taking the body in his arms. ‘She needs to be buried now,’ I said. He held the child so limply, I thought he might drop her to the floor. ‘Take care!’ I warned him. ‘Hold her properly.’ He bustled away with Margaret’s corpse, soon passing her over to his servant, and then telling the man to put the body outside.
I shouted through the doorway. ‘No. Leave her in the house. The fox may take her! ‘
Father Luke returned to the room, rubbing his hands upon his clothes, as if to remove the taint of the child from his person. His movements were agitated and repetitive, so I told him to sit down and calm himself. He duly complied with my request, looking as small and pathetic in his wooden chair as a child waiting to be scolded by his tutor.
‘Why were you whispering with John Barrow?’ I asked him.
He now scratched the side of his face. ‘When was that, sire?’
‘When I found the two of you in the tower at Somershill.’
‘We were praying, sire.’
I sighed. Such an excuse. ‘Would praying cause such a guilty reaction upon discovery?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
I leant over him. ‘Don’t lie to me, Father. Or I will assume you are complicit in these murders.’
He turned his face from me, sweat now dripping from his nose. ‘I had nothing to do with any murders. I only wanted to help John Barrow.’
‘How? By telling him where the newly born children lived? So he would know where to find them?’
His face reddened. ‘No, sire. I would never be party to such evil. I’m a man of God.’
‘Then tell me what you were whispering about.’ He remained silent. ‘I could inform the men of the village that you were John Barrow’s accomplice.’ I leant once more into his face. ‘Imagine how they would react to such news.’
His mouth bubbled with spittle. ‘Please, sire. Don’t tell them such a thing.’
‘Why?’
He wiped his mouth. ‘Because it isn’t true.’ His voice became more forceful. ‘None of this is true.’
‘Then tell me the truth.’
He took a breath to calm himself. ‘I counselled John Barrow. No more. We only whispered because of . . . his sin.’
‘What sin?’
His voice had lost its agitation and was now quiet and wearied. ‘It was a Confession. I cannot say.’
I banged the back of his chair. ‘Yes, you can!’
The priest flinched from me, and put his hands to his mouth. ‘The man wanted to kill himself. He wanted me to help him do it.’
I leant in. ‘How?’
‘By bringing him a knife or a rope.’ Now he looked me straight in the eye. ‘But I refused. I would not assist a man to perform a mortal sin and risk eternal damnation.’ Now he spoke with renewed vigour. ‘You must believe me, sire.’
I stepped back a little. ‘So you took him nothing?’
‘Only items to improve his mood, and to allay his despair. Barrow can’t read, so I brought him a paternoster, and some needlework to pass the time.’
Now I screwed up my face. ‘Needlework?’
‘Yes, sire. He asked for some wood and a chisel, which I would
not provide. He might have used the chisel to kill himself. So, instead I took a small tapestry.’
‘You fool! He used the needle to pick the lock of the door.’
The priest trembled. ‘I didn’t know he would do such a thing, sire. I only sought to help a man in despair. I didn’t suspect he would abuse my charity.’
He began to shake uncontrollably, so I waited until his agitation had subsided. ‘Do you know where Barrow is hiding?’
He shook his head and mumbled. ‘No, sire. I don’t.’
‘Is there somewhere he mentioned.’
‘I can’t remember anywhere.’
I put my hand upon his shoulder. ‘Think, Father. We need to find the man.’
And then he did the most extraordinary thing. He placed his left hand upon mine, and stroked my skin with his fingers. ‘You are a good man, sire. He said you were.’
I pulled my hand away quickly. ‘Who said that?’
He turned to me. ‘Brother Peter.’
‘When did you have such a discussion?’
He froze again. ‘I told you before, sire. I knew him in Rochester.’
‘Why would he tell you such a thing?’
He stumbled over his words. ‘I don’t know.’
I leant into the priest’s face and once again caused him to flinch. ‘I don’t want to hear about him. Ever again.’
‘I didn’t mean to cause offence, sire,’ he said, now holding his head in his hands. ‘Please forgive me.’
I straightened my clothes and walked to his door. ‘Make sure to bury the girl’s body in the finest plot. And do not charge a fee.’
Chapter Nineteen
The infant Margaret Beard had been born to Christina Beard – a widow of the parish who lived with her one surviving daughter in a house they had only recently rented from me. The plot and cottage would have been beyond the pockets of the Beard family in 1348, but now its large rooms, virgate of land, and commuted duties were easy for them to afford – and I was glad they rented the place, since nobody else was interested.
I called at the door with a heavy heart, and when Christina Beard answered it did not lighten. The woman bowed her head, as she knew she must, but could not disguise her displeasure at seeing my face. She looked older and paler than when she had paid her entry fee to take over this property. On that occasion I remember smiles and curtsies, since the fee had been so reduced as to hardly be worth charging.