by S. D. Sykes
‘I think there’s something inside,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we let it go in?’
I went to lift the latch, but Godfrey put his hand on mine. ‘Please, Oswald. I don’t want you to go inside this room.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because—’
It was too late. The dog had pushed the door open, and was now racing into the darkness, making a succession of high-pitched squeals as it bound about the room in a frenzy. I followed without further discussion, finding myself in a dingy and stale-smelling cellar – a room without the benefit of Godfrey’s ingenious ventilation shaft. As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I could see shapes in the dark. Long, thin boxes resting against the walls like a circle of silent watchmen. The dog darted between these boxes with its nose to the floor, until it flushed out a tiny grey mouse. As the mouse and the dog shot past us and disappeared back into the passageway, I turned to Godfrey, hardly knowing what to say.
‘I warned you not to come in here,’ he said. ‘I knew it would upset you.’
‘Is there a coffin for each of us?’ I asked. He nodded in response. ‘Even Hugh?’
‘Yes.’ When I gave a short groan, he added, ‘I had to prepare them, Oswald. You must understand that.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. If we are to die, then we must be buried correctly. Our bodies laid to face the East, so that we may rise at dawn on the Day of Judgment. To see the coming of Christ.’ He hesitated. ‘You remember what happened to the dead at the last plague, Oswald. You remember the horror of the pits.’
He was right. I did remember the plague pits of 1349. But then again, who could forget them? My own father and two older brothers were buried in such a hole, somewhere in the town of Rochester. Their deaths had been a tragedy and yet this turn of fate had changed my own life for the better. In 1349 I was only the third de Lacy son. A spare. The boy who had been sent to the monastery as an oblate at the age of seven – destined to become a Benedictine monk for the rest of his life. Instead, I had become Lord Somershill. I was a husband, with a wife and a son.
Like so many others after the last plague, I had a pit to thank for this outcome. The accident of my brothers’ deaths had become my own chance at life.
Chapter Four
That evening we gathered in the Great Hall for a feast, organised by Godfrey to mark our arrival at Castle Eden. I use the word ‘feast’ loosely, for it was difficult to overindulge on a stew of boiled fowl and onions, accompanied by the roughest barley bread. Nevertheless, I knew better than to complain about the quality of the food. At least we were eating, and there were many months ahead when the hams and the cheeses would be more appreciated.
The supper provided the opportunity for Godfrey to formally introduce us to the other guests – though he did not make a particularly good job of this. He seemed distracted as he quickly pointed at the row of fellow diners along the table, reeling off their names, as I made a concerted effort to remember each one of them.
Sitting next to us at the table were the Heskets, a family of three who had travelled here from their palace in London. Lord Hesket was a man of around fifty years in age, with a bushy beard that hid the majority of his face, and a pair of dark eyes that stared without reserve. His beautiful wife, Lady Isobel, was young, but gave the impression of being jaded with life, despite her youth. As she yawned with boredom and picked at her nails, I noted that her mouth was already set in a downward slant and that there were already frown lines across her forehead. If she did not take care, then her beautiful face would be set forever in a scowl.
Mother was acquainted with the Hesket family, and felt compelled to share her knowledge of them with me, leaning over to whisper in my ear. ‘Of course, that woman is not Hesket’s first wife,’ she said, looking across at Lady Isobel.
‘I guessed that,’ I replied discreetly.
‘His first wife died of the King’s Evil,’ she said. ‘Her neck swelled up to the size of a tree trunk. But would Hesket take her to visit the King? No, he would not. Even though everybody knows that the Royal Touch will cure the affliction.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ I said.
‘But it is, Oswald,’ she said indignantly. ‘Last year King Edward cured many sufferers. It’s a well known fact.’
I decided not to argue. ‘Well, it’s a shame that the poor woman died of such a cruel disease.’
‘Yes, it is. And she was such a sweet thing,’ she sighed. ‘Unlike this one. Just look at her. Lady Isobel, indeed.’ She gave a huff. ‘She might be blessed with the beauty of Aphrodite, but she hasn’t got a scrap of kindness in her soul. See how she ignores Hesket’s daughter.’ She heaved another, regretful sigh. ‘I know the girl is a halfwit but she doesn’t deserve such a cold fish as her stepmother.’
It was probable that Lord Hesket heard this last comment, for he turned sharply to regard us with a look of consternation on his face. If Mother saw censure in his stare, then she did not acknowledge it. Instead, she simply raised her goblet and nodded her head to him. ‘Good evening to you, Lord Hesket,’ she said. ‘How lovely it is to see you and your family again.’
When Hesket had returned his eyes to his meal, I took the opportunity to watch his daughter, Lady Emma, for a while. The girl was as silent now as she had been earlier, when I’d first encountered her in the clockmakers’ workroom. In fact, she had not said a single word during supper. Even so, I thought that Mother’s verdict was too cruel. Lady Emma might be a silent and detached child, but I had the sense that she understood what was going on around her. She simply chose not to engage with anybody, not even her own father.
When I realised that my interest was making Emma uncomfortable, I turned to look at the other guests. The first face to my left was the craggy profile of Godfrey’s uncle – the elderly Benedictine monk whom I’d seen earlier in the inner ward. Known as Old Simon, he was a crooked, blue-skinned man, whose toothless gums were causing his jaw to subside into his face. Alice Cross was the only person who would serve him, since his crow – the same creature that had tapped at our window earlier – pecked viciously at the other maids when they tried to clear his plate. As Old Simon fed the bird with pieces of meat, he explained to Filomena that he had found her as an abandoned nestling, named her Corvina and then taught her to speak. My wife smiled politely at this story, clearly not believing a word of it, until Corvina suddenly squawked Ave Maria and In nomine Patris in her ear. Old Simon rewarded the crow for this performance with yet more tidbits that should have been saved for human consumption.
Further along the table, and keeping his distance from the monk and his crow, sat Robert of Lyndham – the knight whom Godfrey had mentioned earlier. I did not know whether Lyndham’s role as the protector of this castle was a paid position or not. Certainly, the man was being treated with the privileges of the other guests, and was sitting amongst the noble families on the dais. He cut a memorable, even intimidating figure, though he was dressed in a simple tunic. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a booming laugh and a face so disarmingly handsome that it was difficult not to stare at him. Lyndham might have been conceited because of this gift, but he seemed pleasant and self-effacing, though his conversation seemed to stray little further than the hunting abilities of his deerhound – the dog that I had met earlier, as it chased a mouse between Godfrey’s store of coffins.
There was one empty place at the table, to the left of Robert of Lyndham’s, laid for Godfrey’s younger brother – a man named Edwin of Eden, who was said to be too unwell to join us. At the mention of his name, Mother once again leant in to speak to me in a whisper, giving me her opinion of this excuse.
‘Of course, Edwin of Eden is not ill, Oswald. The man has been drinking all afternoon,’ she said. ‘Everybody knows what a drunken, indolent fool he is.’ She put a hand to her chest and smothered a belch. ‘Remember what he was like when he came to stay with us at Somershill? He was so drunk he couldn’t even mount a horse.’ I did remember Edwin’
s last stay, and not fondly. He had been accompanying Godfrey on a trip to London, and the two of them had planned to stay for a single night with us, before they crossed the North Downs and headed for London Bridge at Southwark. The one-night stay had become three, since Edwin had availed himself of our cellars in the middle of the night, and was subsequently too unwell to travel until he had sobered up. I remembered that he vomited all over one of our best quilts, and then spoke so offensively to Filomena that we had been forced to lock him into his bedchamber. Godfrey had apologised profusely for Edwin’s behaviour of course, but I was so infuriated that I had asked him never to bring his brother to Somershill again.
Mother must have read my mind. ‘If Edwin of Eden is not drunk, then he’ll be in the kitchens,’ she said. ‘Pestering one of those poor scullions. The man’s as randy as a ram.’
Lord Hesket leant forwards at this point. ‘Would you keep your voice down, please, my Lady.’ He gestured towards his daughter. ‘There is a child seated near you.’
Mother gave a perfunctory smile, before she inclined her head towards mine again. ‘I don’t know why he worries,’ she whispered. ‘That poor girl can’t understand a thing. Her brain is addled, Oswald. Addled.’
Hesket’s shoulders rose with indignation, for he had most certainly heard this last comment.
‘Please, Mother,’ I said. ‘Keep your voice down.’
Beyond Edwin’s empty place was a second table, still on the dais, but separate from our own. Such is the hierarchy of chairs and tables in a Great Hall. Pieter de Groot and his thin nephew Hans were seated at this table, slurping their stew as if it might be their last meal. The pair were not guests of Godfrey’s, but neither were they his servants – hence their location on the dais, and not at the servants’ table at the other end of the hall, beyond the central fire.
I now had the opportunity to study Hans properly. Whereas his uncle was thickset and robust, this boy was slight-framed, with a shock of sandy-coloured hair that sprouted from the top of his head like a tussock of sedge. I couldn’t help but stare at him for a while. In this poor light, his ashen skin and pale blue eyes gave him the ghoulish, sinister appearance of a moving corpse. The only part of his face that appeared living was a pair of fleshy, crimson lips.
My attentions were drawn back to my own table when Alice Cross and the three maids served us with the last course of the meal – the slimmest slice of hard cheese and a thimble of spiced hypocras. After we had consumed these delicacies within a blink of an eye, Godfrey stood up to make a short speech in our honour.
‘I would like to welcome Lord Somershill and his family to Castle Eden,’ he said, raising his goblet in the air. ‘Now that the de Lacys have arrived, it seems that we are almost full.’
‘Almost full?’ said Lord Hesket. ‘What do you mean by that, Eden? I hope you’re not planning to let anybody else in?’
Godfrey was taken aback by Hesket’s reaction, though he dared not reply in the same tone. This might have been Godfrey’s castle, but Lord Hesket was the richest and most influential man within these walls. ‘I only meant that this castle could still hold more people, if required,’ said Godfrey, trying to steady his voice.
‘Required by whom?’ asked Hesket, his fulsome beard failing to hide a look of disdain. ‘You said that we’d lowered the portcullis for the last time yesterday. When the de Lacys arrived. Did you lie to us?’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Godfrey gibbered. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood me. I just thought you should know that we could accommodate more people in an emergency.’
Hesket leant forward to fix Godfrey with a stare, resting his chin upon his hand. ‘There is no emergency that would require you to open this castle to new guests, Eden, do you understand?’
‘But—’
Hesket thumped the table. ‘We only came to this godforsaken place because you promised to lock the gates.’ I noticed this disparaging comment about Godfrey’s castle raised a rare smile from his wife. ‘Now you keep them locked, do you understand? Nobody out and nobody in.’
We all turned our eyes to Godfrey and I wondered, for a moment, what he would say. I must admit that I had found my friend’s initial comment and subsequent vacillation equally troubling. Now that we were surrounded by plague, the lives of my wife, son and mother would be at risk from any newcomers to this castle – no matter how great the emergency might be. Hesket’s words might have seemed callous, but I could not object to them – for I felt the same.
Godfrey bowed his head. ‘I apologise, Lord Hesket. I didn’t mean to alarm you.’
Hesket folded his arms. ‘Well, you did.’
‘That was certainly not my intention,’ replied Godfrey. ‘I can assure you that I’m as committed to spending a winter here, in complete isolation, as the rest of you.’
Hesket puffed his lips. ‘Well, Eden. You’re certainly committed to spending,’ he muttered. ‘That much is true.’
Godfrey appeared deflated after this exchange and made his excuses – saying that he needed to attend to some matters in his library. I might have made my own excuses at this point, as Mother was tired, Filomena was still uncomfortable at sitting next to a talking crow, and Hugh was beginning to whine. The sooner we returned to our apartment, the better, so that I could light a fire and we could warm ourselves up after supper in this freezing hall. I was about to stand up and announce our departure when forced to take my seat again, for the evening’s entertainment had begun early and now there was no chance for a quick exit.
It transpired that Godfrey, with his love of planning, had gone to the lengths of employing a man to entertain the guests at the castle in the long months to come. He might have been better advised to have engaged a minstrel, rather than this jester – for The Fool, as this man introduced himself, appeared almost immediately to be lacking in any talent for comedy.
He began his act by clumsily cartwheeling across the hall and then jumping onto the dais in front of me. It was clear that I had been singled out as a new victim, much to the relief of the other guests about the table. He then pulled a peacock feather from his belt, waved the feather about in the air above my head and then tickled my face with its tip. I made a pretence of laughing at this, in the hope that I might spark some amusement among my fellow guests, but as I looked along the table I saw a row of bewildered faces looking back at me. The only mirth came from a dark corner, where Sandro held a hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook with laughter. For some reason, my valet seemed to find The Fool’s act hilarious.
Having tickled me with the feather, The Fool then waved it about in the air, before poking it down his braies, with the suggestion that this action was causing him some pain. When nobody laughed at his writhing, he then struck upon the idea of pretending instead that the feather was giving him pleasure. Now, as he rubbed the feather up and down, he pulled twisted, contorted faces of ecstasy.
My mother, who had fallen asleep at the end of the meal, suddenly stirred from her torpor. ‘What’s that man doing, Oswald?’ she said loudly as she squinted through the gloom. ‘Is he playing with himself?’
There was a moment of silence, before the knight, Robert of Lyndham, gave a great guffaw of laughter. His amusement at Mother’s comment prompted others to start giggling. At first it was just a titter, even a chuckle, but soon there was genuine hilarity along the table. Even Lord Hesket, who had previously been staring at The Fool with a most disapproving expression, managed to summon a smile.
If only the evening had ended on this note – but it didn’t.
Mistaking our response as some sort of appreciation for his act, The Fool felt encouraged, even emboldened to continue. He jumped down from the dais and then retrieved his citole from his sack of tricks. Returning immediately with the instrument, he proceeded to stroll up and down the platform, performing a song that he claimed to have written that very afternoon.
‘These castle walls are cold, ’tis true,
They freeze with winter ice and s
now,
But a man can always warm his pole,
Inside a tight and furry hole.’
At this last line The Fool returned his attentions to his braies, dropping one hand inside the folds of cloth and pretending to grasp his cock. He looked about for another laugh, but our amusement had turned to stunned silence. Unfortunately this cool reception did not discourage him from continuing. In fact, he seemed encouraged by the flinty reception to his song, for the second verse was even worse than the first.
‘I know I’m not the only man,
Who longs for comfort from the cold,
I’ve heard the creeping feet at night,
Looking for a new delight.
If ever there was consolation,
To this frozen isolation,
It is found, in every guise,
Between a woman’s warming thighs.’
The Fool had barely strummed the last note before Lady Emma let out an ear-piercing wail that rebounded about the room like the shrieks of a vixen. It was a shock to hear the child make any sort of noise, given her dogged silence all evening, but it now appeared that she was in possession of a fine pair of lungs. As she screamed, Lord Hesket grasped Emma to his chest and held onto her with a determination that spoke of experience. She rocked and repeatedly tried to kick her father, as Hesket’s wife Lady Isobel quietly withdrew into the shadows with a look of jaundiced annoyance on her face. She was not about to offer her husband any help. The Fool’s response to Emma’s screaming was to drop his citole and then back away, nearly falling from the dais, as Robert of Lyndham launched a loaf of bread at his head.
‘Get off,’ shouted Lyndham. ‘No one thinks you’re funny.’
I approached the girl myself, wondering if she might be suffering from an attack of the Falling Sickness, but I could see immediately that this was a different malady. Emma was conscious, and at intervals she even paused to take a breath before she resumed her screaming. Hesket waved me away when I offered my assistance, holding onto his daughter until she kicked him so hard in the shins that he was forced to release her. Following this, she threw herself onto the floor and continued to convulse in a rage, banging her fists and then her head against the rushes of the floor.