by S. D. Sykes
‘I don’t know what you mean, Clemence. Let me go.’
‘You and that whore have taken him, haven’t you?’
‘What?’
She laughed scornfully; her face was knotted with anger. ‘Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re doing. I have her as well.’
‘Eloise? Where is she?’
‘In the dungeon. Where she belongs.’
I tried to slow my breathing. ‘Listen to me, Clemence. Eloise and I have nothing to do with Henry’s disappearance.’
‘But everything to gain from it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your wife wants Versey for her own children.’ I went to answer this, but she pressed her foot against my face. ‘I know she carries a child, little brother. Don’t insult me with your lies.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she told me.’
I squirmed again. ‘Did you hurt her?’ I shouted now. ‘Tell me you didn’t hurt her.’
Clemence stepped back a little. ‘I didn’t have to. She confessed immediately. In fact, I would say she even boasted about her child.’
I coughed again. My mouth was dry and tasted metallic. No longer of bile, but now of blood. ‘Eloise doesn’t know about my promise to you, Clemence. She would have no reason to harm Henry. She thinks our children will inherit Versey.’ I paused. ‘Unless you told her otherwise?’
Now Clemence leant into my face. Her breath was hot. ‘I know what’s going on, little brother. Don’t think me foolish. It’s you that wants Versey for your sons.’
‘For the love of Christ, Clemence,’ I said, now struggling against my bindings. ‘I didn’t even want Somershill. Remember? I offered to go back to the monastery.’
She grasped what she could of my face in her small hand. ‘Where is he?What have you done with Henry?’ Now she rasped, ‘If you’ve killed him, then you will die very slowly.’
My throat was dry and bleeding. ‘I haven’t touched your baby. I would never do such a thing.’
Clemence released her grip. ‘I don’t believe you.’ She then beckoned for Humbert to come forward. ‘The Judas chair first, I think,’ she said, pointing to the large chair adorned with polished spikes.
‘No, please Clemence,’ I begged. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘Let’s see, shall we? I’m told most people will speak when the spikes cut.’
I trembled. ‘You wouldn’t torture me, Clemence. You’re not so cruel.’
She laughed. Pointing at the knee splitter that sat in the corner, rusting and repugnant. ‘Don’t underestimate me. I might use that, as well.’
‘You know I would never harm Henry.’
‘Do I?’
‘Of course you do, Clemence.’
She shrugged. ‘What do I know about you, Oswald? Or should I call you Thomas Starvecrow, because that’s your true name, isn’t it?The son of a poor village girl and a drunken priest. A thieving cuckoo.’ She leant into my face. ‘A wolf that walks with the lambs of this family. He has not a spoonful of de Lacy blood in his body. So why should I trust anything that he has to say?’
‘Please let me go, Clemence. Please.’
She had no sympathy. ‘Then tell me where Henry is.’
I began to feel light-headed again. The knock against my skull had been so forceful that I was losing consciousness again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You do know. But if you won’t tell me, then your whore will. She’s next in here. Though I hoped you might admit to your sins and spare her.’
‘Don’t touch her.’ My eyesight clouded over. ‘You leave her alone.’
Then the blackness washed through me again – the room diminished from a coloured and shifting fantasy to an empty void, as I slipped away into darkness.
Unconsciousness is a catalepsy unlike sleep. It does not water and feed a resting mind with dreams and notions, instead it is a nothingness that robs a person of time and perspective. As if you have been dead and then resurrected.
In reviving, I found myself upon the cold, stone floor of a chamber that was completely devoid of light. At first the still and velvety black terrified me, and I wondered if I were indeed dead, or whether this was some type of purgatory? An eternity of oblivion, with nobody but myself for company. My first thought was desperation – but then, as my senses came back to life, I realised that I still lived and that this was the dungeon at Versey. I recognised the dank and muddy smell of the place.
My head and jaws ached, but, touching them cautiously, I found that nothing was broken, though my scalp felt slimy and hot. I tasted my fingertips and found them to be covered in the metallic and salty mixture of blood and sweat.
Slowly my eyes adjusted to the light, and I was able to make out the rutted stone of the walls and the iron bands across the door. A thin strip of light made its way into the room from beneath this entrance, but it was grey and weak and gave only the slightest illumination to the chamber. Slumped against the damp wall I began to cry. There was nobody here to see me, so I did not bother to hide my tears.
Then I heard a noise in the darkest corner of the room. It was neither a scratching nor a rustle, so it couldn’t be the rats that often ran about this place. A shape moved slowly in the shadows.
‘Is somebody there?’ I said. ‘Is that you Eloise?’
My answer was merely a heavy breath and the whisper of cloth against cloth. But this was not Eloise. That much I could tell.
I edged further into my own corner. ‘Who is it?’ I said. Still my companion kept to the shadows, dark and silent.
‘Stay where you are then,’ I said. ‘I don’t care.’ And I didn’t care. My head ached as badly as it had ever done in my whole life, and I had neither the energy nor inclination to play guessing games with the fellow occupant of this cell. I fell back against the wall and clutched my poor, throbbing head.
The breathing came again.Then a small voice. ‘It’s me, Oswald.’
I groaned. ‘No. It can’t be.’ Was this an illusion? An evil fantasy invented by my aching brain? But no, the words were real enough – for then a face appeared in the gloom, though it did not match the voice I knew so well. It was disfigured and scarred, with a complexion so pink and stretched it might have been a skinned rabbit. Eyelids pulled tautly over two slits, and swollen lips that surrounded a lopsided mouth.
‘I thought you were dead,’ I said.
The face tried to smile at me, though its skin would not oblige. ‘No Oswald. I live.’ He shuffled forward and took my hands in his own. Hands that were still human. ‘Clemence tried to kill me a second time. But I still live.’
I pulled away. ‘What are you doing here, Brother?’
Peter cocked his head to look at me through the strange holes in his face. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me, Oswald?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Does my appearance revolt you?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘This is Clemence’s doing.’ He held up his hands to his face and cupped it in a fan of fingers. ‘She threw boiling water upon my face. Don’t you remember?’
‘She only acted in defence.’
‘I wouldn’t have hurt you, Oswald.’ He attempted to frown. ‘You’re my son.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘But it’s true.’
‘You merely provided the seed to give me life.’
His face relaxed a little. ‘Ever the pedant, Oswald.’ Then he tried to laugh, though his lips struggled to accommodate the movement, and he had to keep licking their distorted edges to stop the pale skin from cracking. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve not changed.’
‘Why are you here?’ I said.
‘The priest betrayed me to Clemence.’ He coughed. It was a hoarse and rasping sound. ‘Feeble little Judas.’
‘Father Luke?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been staying with him. He’s kept me hidden in his tithe barn.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to watch over you.’
‘I meant why did the priest let you stay in his barn?’
He coughed again and now cleared his throat. ‘He didn’t mind.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ I shifted further into the corner. ‘Why would he risk doing that for you? Was it intimidation? Or bribery perhaps?’
Peter sighed. ‘Father Luke is a sodomite. I discovered him and his young friend in the crypt at Rochester. Not a story he would like told about the parish.’
‘So you threatened him.’ And now I did laugh, despite the shooting pain in my temple. ‘You haven’t changed, have you? Still steeped in evil.’
Peter shuffled forward and grasped my arm. ‘Keep your voice down, Oswald.They might be listening to us.’ He pointed to the door, but the line of light remained perfectly still, giving no indication that a person was lurking on the other side. Now he whispered, ‘They’ve put us in the same cell, so they might hear what we say. To implicate us in the disappearance of the child.’
‘I have nothing to hide Brother Peter.’ I hesitated and looked to his melted face. ‘Do you?’ But the ridged skin and the taut redness of his countenance gave nothing away.
I went to say more, but a pain shot through my head, causing me to gasp.
‘Did Clemence torture you?’ Peter asked.
‘No. But her servant hit me.’ I pointed to my temple. ‘Here.’
‘Let me help you, Oswald.’
I backed against the wall once again. ‘Keep away from me.’
He felt about his tunic.
‘Do you have some Madeira in there, Peter?’ I said bitterly. ‘Or brandy? You always have something about your person to drink, don’t you?’
Peter looked up at me, now with a small flask in his hand. ‘I rarely drink these days.’
I laughed. ‘I doubt that.’
He held the flask to my face. ‘Drink it. The spirit will soothe your pain.’ I turned away and refused, which only caused him to thrust the flask at me with more insistence. ‘Go on Oswald. Drink it all. I don’t need it any more.’
I pushed the flask away. ‘Another lie, Brother?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘You want me to believe that you no longer drink? It was the only thing that kept you alive.’
Now Peter grasped my arm again and tried to take my hand. ‘No, Oswald. It was not the wine that kept me alive. It was you. My son.’
I would not listen to such declarations, so I pushed him roughly away. He rolled into a ball and then wept so freely that I suddenly felt guilty for my rudeness and hostility.
‘What do you want from me, Peter?’ I said.
He mumbled something into the cowl of his habit.
‘Speak up. I can’t hear you.’
He looked up at me, and somewhere behind this scarred mask I saw the Brother Peter of old, his face kind and wise. ‘I only want forgiveness, Oswald.’ A tear formed in the deep slit to one side of his nose. An eye looked out at me, red and familiar.
I reached out and took his flask of brandy. It was weakness, but as the warm fluid slipped down my bruised throat, I felt grateful for Peter’s presence in the cell. ‘Where have you been for all these months?’ I asked him, when the spirit had taken its effect. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘I hid myself away in a remote cottage for many weeks. There are many such abandoned homes since the Plague. It was not difficult to find.’
‘What did you eat?’
He smiled, turning a corner of his mouth upward with some difficulty. ‘Oh Oswald. Not all of us were born with supper on the table. I learnt to hunt and scavenge as a child. It’s a skill I’ve never lost.’
I was irritated by this gibe. ‘Don’t scorn me, Brother. You put me in this position, so don’t criticise me for growing up as a nobleman.’
He nodded. ‘Very well, Oswald. Please accept my apology.’
I paused a moment. ‘I went to Thomas Starvecrow’s grave and dug up his coffin.’
‘I know you did,’ said Peter. Then he chuckled, as if any of this was funny. ‘Clemence told me. When she was tightening the screw.’ He cast a glance at me. ‘Oh yes. She might not have tortured you, but she tortured me.’
I ignored this. Was it true? Was it a lie? Who could tell any more? ‘Why was the coffin empty, Brother?’ I said. ‘You told me the infant had died. But I found nothing inside. Nothing but a wooden effigy.’
Peter sighed. ‘You should have left the coffin alone, Oswald. Sometimes it is better not to know these things.’
‘Not for me.’
He smiled. ‘No. You’re a good boy. A truth seeker.’
‘So tell me the truth then.’
He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Your true mother believed the infant was dead. He would not be roused, not even for nursing. I took his body to the church to bury him, but then the child revived. At first I thought it was the death rattle, but his lungs filled again with air and he began to cry.’
‘What did you do with him?’ A lump began to form in my throat.
Peter puffed out his lips. ‘I’d met a travelling knife grinder and his wife.Their boy had recently died, so they took him. And called him after their own dead baby.’
‘Why didn’t you just take him back to the cottage? Where my mother could have nursed him?’
He stumbled over his words. ‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘I can’t explain it.’ Then he picked at the mole on his neck. A short tag of skin that he had always twisted when he was nervous. It was one small part of his face and neck that had not been scarred by Clemence’s boiling water. ‘I should have taken the boy back. You’re right.’
‘Yes.You should have.’
He stared at the dark floor and sighed. ‘But then—’ He stopped, and would not finish the sentence.
‘But then I would not have become Lord Somershill. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘No.’
This was a half-hearted rebuttal. ‘If you had returned the boy, then I would not have become Oswald de Lacy. The position you so desperately wanted for me.’
Peter opened his mouth to answer this accusation. I knew what he planned to say. That I should be grateful for this act. That I should be happy to be known as Oswald de Lacy when my true name was Thomas Starvecrow. That I should be thankful for his intervention in my fate. But he knew what my reaction would be, so he wisely kept his mouth shut.
‘What name did the knife grinder give to the boy?’ I said.
Peter shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. It was so long ago.’
‘Did you ever see the boy again? Or enquire after his well-being?’
‘No. The family were travellers. Our paths never crossed.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘How convenient.’
Peter dropped his shoulders and sighed. ‘I asked for forgiveness, Oswald. Not sarcasm.’ Then he pulled the hair back from his face, revealing an ear that was as bulbous as a lobe of bracket fungus. ‘I can’t reverse what happened. But you must believe me when I say I’m sorry.’
‘Are you?’
He looked at me with such solemnity. ‘Yes, Oswald,’ he said. ‘I am. Truly.’
I can tell you this much. At that moment I did forgive Peter. For all his lies and deceit, I wanted to believe him. I had missed his company and his guidance. I had been lonely without him. For that moment I thought our story was done. That his repentance gave me reason to accept this confession and pardon his sins.That we were reconciled. Father and son. Son and father.
But our story was not a completed circle. Instead it was as unfinished as a wheel with no felloes or metal bandings. It was deficient, broken and could never be mended.
The pain from my temple now seared into the side of my face, stabbing and cruel. I held my jaw and groaned, and before I could think better of my actions, I laid my head onto Peter’s lap and let him stroke the sweating hair on my head.
‘Were you struck with a rock?’ he asked me as his fingers lightly touched the dents in my forehead.
&n
bsp; ‘Yes,’ I groaned turning my head to look up at his face. His nostrils misshapen and stretched unnaturally against the skin of his cheeks. ‘Clemence has lost her child, Peter. And she thinks I’m responsible.’
He shook his head gently. ‘Clemence lacks the courage and conviction to harm you any further. I’m sure of it.’
I shrugged his hand from my head. ‘She’s stronger than you think. And desperate to find Henry. She’ll do anything.’ I allowed Peter’s finger to return to my scalp. ‘I can’t blame her,’ I sighed, as his hands lulled me towards a welcome peace. ‘Henry is her only child. You should understand that more than anybody.’
Peter’s voice was low and melodic, as soothing as a nursemaid trying to settle a fractious baby. ‘Don’t worry about her child, Oswald.’
I closed my eyes. ‘But I do, Peter. I want to find him.’
‘Shh. It’s not your concern. Try to sleep.’
The pain continued to radiate about my jaw, but its peaks were weakening. ‘What if Henry is dead? Taken by a lunatic. The man I had sheltered.’
Peter placed his hand on my cheek. ‘Henry de Caburn is nothing to you, dear Oswald. Though it’s typical of your kindness that you should care about him.’
‘He’s my nephew, Peter. Of course I care.’
I turned my head again, but he pushed me gently back to his lap. ‘Close your eyes. Rest.’ He stroked my hair so rhythmically that I did very nearly fall into a deep slumber, and perhaps he thought I was already sleeping, for then he whispered softly, ‘Don’t concern yourself with Henry de Caburn. Think about the future of your own child instead. The child already conceived and growing in the womb of Mistress Cooper.’
I opened my eyes sharply. ‘What did you say?’
Peter blustered some words that caused me to sit up.
‘How did you know that Eloise was with child?’ I said. ‘It’s a secret.’
Once again he tried to say something, but the words made no sense.
‘Do you know Eloise Cooper?’ I said.
He pulled at the mole on his neck. ‘No, no. I don’t.’
I tried to scrutinise his face, but he had turned away into the shadows. ‘What made you mention a child?’
‘I don’t know.’ Then he stuttered. ‘I must have guessed.’