by S. D. Sykes
She hesitated. ‘Versey, of course.’ I was surprised at her honesty and must have let my mouth fall open. ‘Oh don’t be so shocked, Oswald. I wanted to live in a castle at last. A house made of stone. Not some great wooden barn, which every noblewoman may laugh at. And you need a wife and an heir, Oswald. So where is the evil in this plan?’
Now I had to stifle a laugh of incredulity. ‘You induced a young girl, your own niece, to abduct a baby. That seems evil enough to me.’
She waved her hand in irritation. ‘I only made a foolish suggestion, Oswald. I didn’t expect Mary to act upon it.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
She sat back upon the bed and placed her hands demurely in her lap. ‘I assumed our child would inherit Versey, so the news that you’d promised the estate to Henry came as a shock to me, Oswald. You must see that.’ Then she twisted her head from side to side and stretched her neck. ‘It was cowardly of you not to tell me yourself. I had to hear about your promise from Mary.’
‘So she was eavesdropping? As I suspected.’
Eloise sniffed a little, seemingly embarrassed by her next statement. ‘When Mary told me the story, I did wish the boy harm. I don’t deny that.’ She then laughed. ‘But I didn’t mean my words. They were said in a moment of fury.’ She looked at me again, her eyes green and penetrating. ‘I didn’t command Mary to abduct the boy. Neither did your disfigured priest. In fact, I’m horrified that the girl did such a thing.’
What was I to believe? Who was I to trust?
I looked Eloise over. ‘Are you with child? Truly?’
She placed a hand upon her stomach. ‘Yes. Of course I am.’
‘But he or she will not inherit Versey. You understand that.’
She looked to the ceiling and gave a bitter sigh. ‘Yes.’
A week later I set out for Somershill with Eloise, having decided that we would marry – whether Eloise liked it or not. Our child would not be a bastard. The de Caburn sisters accompanied us to Somershill, since they could not stay at Versey Castle – not after Henry’s abduction. With Brother Peter’s disappearance, Clemence now had guards at Henry’s crib, so I feared that Mary, despite her sincere remorse, would be blamed for every sneeze or cough the child suffered. And had Mary accidentally tarried near his room, she might even have been stabbed with a pike. No. It was better for all concerned that I removed the girls from Clemence’s company.
As our band travelled home, I noticed that the oaks of the forest were finally sprouting their leaves – a yellow green that was as vivid as the body of a grasshopper. Summer was here at last. Every so often, I looked back to see Mary and Becky, stopping the wagon so that they might fuss over the box containing their decrepit feathered friend. I had yet to decide the fate of Rab.
Our silent progress was interrupted when we saw a horse and cart in the distance. Recognising the rider upon the horse to be Father Luke, I galloped ahead to speak with him.
He greeted me by looking over my shoulder. ‘Is Lady Clemence with you?’ His face betrayed a certain terror that I might say yes.
‘No. Luckily for you, she isn’t. But she’s told me you confessed to sheltering Brother Peter.’ Father Luke’s mouth fell open. ‘I suppose that’s why you kept mentioning the man to me?’
The priest put his fingers to his cheek, and I noted that his face was now completely covered with the spots and scabs of an anxious adolescent. ‘Yes, sire.’ Then he whispered some words to himself that failed to reach my ears.
‘Peter threatened to reveal a secret about you. Is that correct?’
The young priest nodded his head. ‘It was a mistake, my lord. A sin of which I have repented.’
‘Which sin is that then? Harbouring a felon? Or being a sodomite?’
He simply looked at me with one of his long, confused stares and I didn’t press him for an answer. Frankly I didn’t care what he had done in the crypts at Rochester.
‘Where are you going now?’ I asked. ‘We are a long way from Somershill.’
The question was simple enough, but Father Luke was unable to answer. His stumbling hesitation raised my suspicions. ‘What’s in your cart?’
‘Nothing,’ he stammered.
‘Then you won’t mind if I look?’ I pulled at the cloth that covered the contents of the cart, but he grasped it away from me, as if I were trying to steal it from a market stall. ‘It’s a dead body, sire. I don’t think you should look.’
‘Whose dead body?’
‘Just a person who needs burying at St Giles. You wouldn’t know him.’ His pony began to shift about, unhappy at the tension in the reins.
‘I’ll look anyway,’ I said. ‘I may know his face.’
The priest began to panic. ‘Please, sire. Don’t look. Please. It will upset you.’
‘Get out of my way,’ I told him, now pulling the cloth away. A familiar face looked back at me from within the cart – though his skin was bloated and his dead eyes stared glassily into space. ‘John Barrow?’
The priest let go of the reins and put his head in his hands. ‘Yes. I found him in the forest. Hanging from a tree.’
My stomach churned. ‘Who killed him?’
Father Luke trembled. ‘Nobody, sire. He killed himself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ he said with the deepest of sighs. ‘He told me repeatedly that he meant to do it. He even took his own rope.’ I remembered Geoffrey’s description of the sack that Barrow had carried. The bag I once suspected of holding the body of baby Henry. ‘I tried to stop him,’ said the priest. ‘But he wouldn’t listen. He believed he had released the butcher bird.’
‘Did he confess to you? Did he admit to killing Catherine Tulley and Margaret Beard?’
The priest began to pick at the scabs on his face. ‘Yes, sire.’ He sighed. ‘But mostly Barrow spoke in riddles, so I can’t be certain of his guilt.’Then he looked me straight in the eye. ‘Can you?’
How to answer his question? Barrow had been at large when both the children were murdered. He was a madman with his own warped motivations. He had even confessed his crimes to a priest. So, why wouldn’t I be certain? A wake of buzzards circled above us, their feathers splayed at the ends of their wings like outstretched fingers. I watched them soar and swoop above the treetops, watching for prey in the open spaces below. In the distance, Eloise was staring at me with her arms crossed.
‘What will you do with his body?’ I asked.
‘I can’t bury him in the churchyard. Suicide is a mortal sin. But there is some land in the glebe field that I’ve set aside for such burials.’ Then he gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘You won’t tell the bishop, will you?’ He seemed flustered again. ‘He would insist the body is decapitated and hung in the village.’ He gulped and reddened. His large Adam’s apple moved up and down in his neck. ‘The church says such a disgraceful end deters others from trying to take their own lives. But I don’t believe that. And I would hate to see his body mutilated.’ He looked back into the wagon. ‘His sin was madness.’
Perhaps I should have objected to this burial? Why should Barrow have received any favours, even in death? But I said nothing. For, in truth, at that moment I wanted this whole affair buried along with Barrow’s corpse. I turned my horse to rejoin my party when a thought crossed my mind. ‘I need you to perform my marriage ceremony,’ I told Father Luke.
The colour had returned to his cheeks. ‘Indeed. When?’
I had given this matter little thought, but did not want to give that impression. ‘The day after tomorrow,’ I announced.
His hand trembled. ‘So soon?’ His words were hesitant. ‘But what about the betrothal ceremony? It should be carried out forty days before the marriage.’
I stared at him. ‘You performed it already, Father Luke. Remember? It was done privately. A few weeks ago. Just Mistress Cooper and myself were present.’
The priest frowned. His face a picture of confusion. ‘But . . . er. No, no. I don’t think I did
.’
‘Yes you did.’
‘Are you sure, sire?’ He didn’t seem to take my meaning at all. ‘I don’t remember it.’
‘Perhaps then I should speak to the bishop regarding your memory?’ I pointed to the body of Barrow in the cart. ‘And any other matters which might interest him.’
His face twisted into a grimace, but then relaxed, as he finally understood me. Sometimes our priest displayed the mental capacity of a mouse moth, running into a flame. ‘Of course. I see.’ He scratched his balding head. ‘Yes.The betrothal ceremony. I do remember now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And the marriage is the day after tomorrow?’
I groaned, fearing I might have to write it down for him. ‘Yes Father Luke. Exactly as I said.’
As we returned to Somershill, I noted that the apple trees brimmed with setting fruits, but the fields were empty of people. Two more homes had been abandoned in the village – their doors removed and their roofs stripped of thatch. Somebody was on the roof cutting out the beams, but when we passed, they shot into the shadows. Soon these same materials would adorn another person’s home – petty thieving was becoming a constant problem on the estate. I didn’t have the time to accost this particular thief, so we rode on towards the house, to be met by Gilbert’s unwelcoming face and his usual complaint that he hadn’t been warned of our arrival. Eloise, who had barely spoken a word since we left Versey, told my truculent valet to shut his mouth.
I found Mother in the solar with her feet in a basin of steaming water. I held my nose, for the stink about the room was appalling. She tried to stand up, but the bowl was slippery and she nearly lost her balance.
‘Stay where you are, Mother,’ I said, kissing her quickly upon the top of her head.
She caught my hand. ‘Dearest Oswald. You’re home. And I hear you saved our poor little Henry from the claws of the butcher bird.’ Her eyes were wild with childish excitement.
I had persuaded Clemence and Humbert to keep quiet about Henry’s discovery, arguing it would be unfair to brand Mary as the child’s abductor. She was still such a young girl herself. Clemence had agreed to my request with great reluctance, and Humbert was unlikely to say anything to anybody. Instead we told everybody that Henry had been found in the forest – though this was a poor story to quench the thirst of the village for drama, especially as the episode entailed the discovery of a missing child. So, in place of my mundane explanation for Henry’s reappearance, the villagers had simply invented their own tale. I featured strongly in this new version, but so, unfortunately, did the butcher bird. And no matter how many times I denied the bird’s existence, it was now said that I had wrestled baby Henry from the claws of this creature, while the monster lifted me into the sky with the intention of taking us both to its eyrie.
I looked to Mother. ‘No.The true story is much less interesting. We found Henry in some bushes.’
Mother waved her hands. ‘Oh stop it, Oswald. Why must you always be so modest? You are the family’s great investigator. Everybody knows that.’
She stood up and suddenly the stink of the steaming basin reached my nose. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Just a tincture that I added to my footbath.’
‘Tincture of what? It smells like something brewed up from the charnel house.’
‘Come along Oswald. You know yourself that the worst-smelling medicines are the most effective. I’m not sure Master de—’ Then she stopped herself. ‘I bought it from a travelling physician.’
I felt my anger ignite. ‘Is de Waart here?’ I said. ‘I told you to keep him away from this family.’
She removed her feet from the water and placed them upon some clean linen. ‘Now listen to me, Oswald.The skin on my legs has been terribly dry. I even bled all over the sheets after scratching at them.’Then she gave a great sigh. ‘And you haven’t been here to help me.’
Our discussion was interrupted as Eloise entered, her face sharing my disgust at the stink. Not that Mother noticed this reaction. She clapped her hands. ‘Mistress Cooper. Dear Oswald here doesn’t believe in the efficacy of foul-smelling tinctures. What do you say?’
Eloise bowed her head to Mother. ‘I would say it depends upon the physician who has prepared the herbs, my lady.’
Mother clapped her hands a second time. ‘I agree. But Oswald doesn’t care for my physician. Though I’ve found him myself to be entirely trustworthy.’
‘Except for nearly killing Clemence after she gave birth,’ I said.
Mother held her hand to her ear and feigned deafness. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying Oswald. Stop mumbling.’
I went to repeat my words, when Eloise interrupted, ‘Is your physician in the house, my lady?’
Mother looked to me warily. ‘He might be,’ she said, believing herself to sound vague. ‘I’m not at all sure.’
‘Perhaps he would call upon me?’ said Eloise. ‘I’m feeling a little melancholic.’
It was my turn to interrupt. ‘You don’t want to see this man, Eloise. I can assure you. He will do nothing to improve your mood.’
She turned to me, her eyes hateful. ‘I’ve also been nauseous, Oswald. As well you know.’
‘I don’t care if you vomit all day. You are not consulting with Roger de Waart.’
Now she bristled with indignation. ‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed.’
A silence followed that was only broken when Mother let out the most offensive burp. She then rubbed her stomach. ‘There, you see. The tincture has worked perfectly.’
‘I thought the tincture was a cure for dry skin?’
Now Mother laughed. ‘This cure is both for cold and warm ailments, Oswald. Which is the wonder of de Waart’s medicine. He rarely treats one imbalance. Not when he can treat two at the same time.’ She turned to Eloise and whispered, ‘It’s far easier on the purse.’
Thankfully we were prevented from continuing this mindless conversation by a knock at the door. Featherby entered, stooping to cross the threshold – a foolish affectation since the door was perfectly tall enough to accommodate his height.
Featherby had not called upon me at a favourable time. I was both tired after my journey from Versey, and irritated to discover that de Waart was lurking somewhere about the house. ‘What is it?’ I said.
The man stepped forward and came so close to Eloise that she cursed him and told him to get away from her with his farmyard stink. How she smelt Featherby over the scent of Mother’s foot basin was hard to imagine.
Featherby withdrew to a courteous distance and bowed. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sire. I saw you were home and needed to speak with you urgently.’
‘What about?’
He shifted awkwardly on his feet. ‘Farm business.’
Mother swept up Eloise by the arm and pushed her towards the door. ‘Come along, Mistress Cooper. Let us leave these men to discuss their affairs.’
Eloise stiffened at this suggestion, but let herself be thrust out of the room nonetheless. When the door was shut, Featherby resumed his advance on my person, causing me to retreat to the fire. ‘So what is this urgent business?’ I asked him,
‘I’ve lost too many men, sire. It’s just as I warned you. There’s no chance I can finish the sowing.’
‘But—’
‘Last week Gideon Hoad moved out. Said he was moving upcountry. But I’ve heard he’s heading out to the marsh.’
‘Romney Marsh? What would he go there for?’
Featherby ignored this question. ‘And now Thomas Tulley says he’s going as well.’
‘Well he can’t. He’s not free to leave this estate.’
‘But Tulley’s been causing a lot of trouble, sire. Might be best to let him go.’
I suddenly longed for a drink. Gilbert hadn’t brought me any ale since I’d arrived home, and now my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. ‘What’s your point, Featherby?’ I said with irritation. ‘First you tell me that you don’t have enough men
. Then you say you want one of them to go.’
Featherby cleared his throat. ‘I can’t say it any plainer than this, sire. I can’t manage any more. The men who remain won’t work for the wages you pay them. The ones who’ve gone will never come back.’
My head ached. ‘I’m not raising the wages, Featherby. I told you that before.’
He advanced. ‘Well I’m asking you, one last time, to reconsider.’
‘I can’t’.
He sucked his teeth. ‘You can’t?’
My temper was stretched to the tension of a hide on a frame. The journey. My thirst.The stink of de Waart’s tincture. ‘I mean, I won’t.’
The churl raised an eyebrow at me. He even folded his arms.
‘Just get out of here, Featherby,’ I said.
He paused and then bowed. ‘Very well, sire. But you should know this. I’m thinking of leaving myself.’
I steered him to the door. ‘Then good riddance to you.’
I slipped between the cool and smooth sheets of Rennes linen and closed my eyes. In the peace of this chamber my troubles hid amongst the embroidered creatures in the tapestries upon the walls at the end of the bed. I was not even bothered by the mouse that scuttled across the floor, nor the spider that spun its web in the corner. I shut my eyes instead upon the dark world inside my head, where all the ghouls and goblins of my real life were reduced to shadows. In their place I dreamt of my pleasures. Geometry. Astronomy. Latin and Syriac. But this only made me more melancholic, for I couldn’t remember the last time I had studied a book – other than the grubby manuscripts that were still hidden beneath my mattress. When I thought of geometry, I could barely remember the most simple of formulas. And my Latin vocabulary was as rusted as the nails in our old portcullis.
Then a shadow formed into a shape in my mind. It split into two shapes that drifted and flitted, before forming themselves into the bodies of two small babies. Catherine Tulley and Margaret Beard. And then it split again. And now a new shadow formed. He was the smallest and the hardest to see, but I knew him immediately. This infant was my unborn son. I stretched out to touch him, but he vanished.
Then, at last, sleep found me and I did not wake until late the next morning when my slumber was interrupted by a shriek. Mother ran into my room and grasped me by the shoulders.