by S. D. Sykes
We all stood about helplessly, until Sandro crept forward and gently took one of the girl’s hands. At first she resisted his interference, but Sandro answered each rebuff by repeatedly grasping her hand, and then staring fixedly into her wild, frenzied eyes. Once the girl finally met his gaze, she suddenly focused. It was as if my valet had cleaned a pane of misted glass, and now she could see through. She blinked and then looked about, almost surprised to see our faces peering down at her. She took a final gasp, and scrambled to her feet – running to her father and burying her face in the folds of his long cloak.
Lord Hesket nodded a guarded thank-you to Sandro and then led his sobbing, exhausted daughter from the room. His wife trailed after him, managing to puff out a regretful sigh as her long skirts swept through the door. The rest of us soon followed, for there was no reason to stay in the Great Hall any longer that evening. The food had been bad. The conversation not much better, and the entertainment had been terrible.
We returned to our chambers, and as Mother and Filomena prepared for bed I tried to warm our freezing apartment by lighting a fire. As I cursed the damp wood, Filomena took me by the hand.
‘Hugh has gone to sleep in your mother’s bed,’ she said softly. ‘We are alone for once.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Now come and spend some time with me, Oswald. I’ll warm you up.’
I didn’t need to be persuaded. But just as I had abandoned the fire and was beginning to undress, there was a knock at the door.
Filomena put her finger to her lips. ‘Don’t answer that,’ she whispered. ‘Come to bed.’
I stood perfectly still and waited – hoping that the knock would not come again. There was silence for a few moments, and it seemed that my visitor had given up, when the knocking returned. This time it was forceful and demanding, and I knew that this person would not go away.
‘I’d better see who it is,’ I said with a groan.
Filomena folded her arms. ‘Why?’
‘It might be important.’
I opened the door to find Alice Cross looking back at me from the darkness. Her lantern was casting a beam of light upon her cheeks, highlighting the abundance of freckles that had joined together to form ragged blotches of pigment. ‘So you are in there, my Lord,’ was her greeting.
‘What do you want?’ I said tersely. ‘We’re going to bed.’
She looked over my shoulder at Filomena, and then pulled a knowing, if slightly disgusted face. ‘Lord Eden requests that you come to his library. He needs to speak to you immediately.’
‘What about?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said.
‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’
‘I only know that it’s important,’ she said. ‘My master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Filomena stepped up to my shoulder and gave a curt and irritated cough to remind me of her presence, and suddenly I found myself caught between the wills of two women – unsure which one to obey. But this was Godfrey’s castle, and we would be his guests for the next three months at least. I had no choice but to answer his summons.
Had I already undressed, then I would have stayed in bed and ignored Alice Cross. But such is our path through this life. Important turns balance and rock upon the frailest of pivots. By answering the door, I changed many things. Not least the ending of this story.
Chapter Five
A silvery moon illuminated the inner ward as I made my way to Godfrey’s library. There was a sharpness and clarity to the light, so different to the leaden haze of rain and fog on the previous day – but then again the air was much colder, stabbing my face with its tiny, frozen daggers.
I hurried across the cobblestones, clasping my cloak about me as I headed towards the tower where Godfrey’s library was located, opening the door to the stairwell, to find Lord Hesket coming in the opposite direction. He stormed past me, nearly knocking me aside, but offered no apology, nor even an acknowledgment. Instead he sped off across the inner ward with his cloak flaring behind him like a sail. He must have come from Godfrey’s library, since there were no other rooms in this tower.
I proceeded to climb the stairs cautiously after this encounter, wary of meeting any other angry guests, but my path was clear. When I reached the second floor, I knocked at the door and entered to find Godfrey hunched over a book at his table. He gave an embarrassed smile when he saw my face and then quickly directed me towards the fire, where two stools were positioned next to the hearth. I sat down on one of these seats and drew my hood about my face, for the room was still bitterly cold, despite this fire. My breath was misting into the air like steam from a kettle.
Godfrey stowed something away in the chest next to his table and then poured two goblets of wine. ‘Thank you for coming up to see me,’ he said, offering one of the goblets to me.
‘I saw Lord Hesket on the stairs,’ I remarked, after I’d taken a long sip of the wine. It was Sweet Malmsey – spiced and warming. ‘He seemed very angry.’
Godfrey took a seat on the stool beside me, and I noticed that his eyes were as red as his beard. ‘Hesket has such a temper,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes it is difficult to reason with him.’
‘What was he angry about?’ When Godfrey tried to shrug away my question, I added, ‘Was it The Fool’s song? I suppose you’ve heard that it upset his daughter?’
Godfrey hesitated. ‘Yes, Hesket told me about that,’ he said wearily. ‘Was it very crude?’
I smiled in an effort to make light of the subject, as Godfrey seemed so despondent. ‘It was just The Fool’s attempt to set a fabliau to music,’ I said. ‘Something about a man creeping about at night in search of a woman’s bed.’
Godfrey groaned. ‘Written about my brother Edwin, no doubt,’ he said, before taking a long glug of the Malmsey. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have hired him.’ He stared into the empty goblet. ‘But then again, Robert of Lyndham did recommend this man to me. Apparently The Fool has worked for some of the most noble families in London.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Mind you, Sir Robert didn’t mention anything about vulgar songs.’
‘Most jesters sing such songs these days,’ I said. ‘It’s a fashion from France.’
‘Do they?’ said Godfrey with a shrug. ‘I’m not very informed on such matters, I’m afraid.’ He stood up to fill his goblet again from the jug. ‘Still,’ he said. ‘At least The Fool brought along his own food. A rather generous amount, as it happens.’ He looked up at me hopefully. ‘And I’m told he can juggle.’
‘Then we must make sure that he sticks to juggling, and discourage him from composing any more songs,’ I said. ‘Particularly ones about your brother.’
Godfrey raised his goblet to this. ‘Agreed.’
‘So,’ I said purposefully, mindful of the warm bed that I’d left behind. ‘What is it that you wanted to speak to me about Godfrey? I am rather tired.’
Godfrey returned to his seat and then prodded at the fire with a long iron poker. ‘I was wondering what you thought about this plague, Oswald?’ he said, without turning to look at me. ‘I’d like to know your thoughts on its meaning.’
‘Could this not have waited until the morning?’ I said, unable to hide my irritation at this being the reason for my summons.
‘I’m sure that you’ve given it some thought,’ he replied calmly, refusing to acknowledge my reaction. ‘You’re an intelligent man.’
‘I only know that it came from the East, over ten years ago,’ I said with a sigh. ‘And that it’s never truly gone away.’
‘And its meaning?’
‘It has no meaning, Godfrey,’ I snapped. ‘It’s a disease, like Leprosy or the King’s Evil. It attacks the good and the bad with equal measure.’
He turned to gaze at my face. ‘I’m not so sure,’ he said, his eyes now gleaming in the firelight. ‘I think that there’s more to this infection than chance.’
‘Plague is an unthinking monster. It has no will or skills of discrimination,’ I said. ‘Other than to find human li
fe and destroy it.’
Godfrey sat forward at these words. ‘Exactly, Oswald. But how does plague decide which human life to destroy? That’s what interests me.’
‘It just assaults the first person in its path,’ I said. ‘You know this yourself, Godfrey. It’s why you’ve set up this fortress.’
‘But—’
‘You know that the only way to keep safe from the Plague is to keep out of its reach.’
Godfrey lifted his goblet from the floor, took another gulp of his wine and then wiped his lips. ‘I understand your point, Oswald,’ he conceded. ‘And it’s true that I have gathered together a band of my friends and members of my own family to this castle. But we are still at God’s mercy. The Plague will still kill those who deserve to die.’
‘I don’t agree, Godfrey. This disease has nothing to do with the punishment of sins. If you think—’
He held up his hand to silence me. ‘Please, Oswald. Let me provide you with some evidence for my argument. I want you to consider where plague was most devastating at its last onslaught.’
I knew exactly where his line of reasoning was heading, for I had heard his opinions on this subject enough times before. ‘It hit the monasteries the hardest,’ I said wearily.
‘Exactly. You grew up in a monastery, Oswald. You saw what happened for yourself at the last plague.’
‘Yes. But the mortality was only so high because the monks lived in such close proximity to one another,’ I replied. ‘As soon as one brother caught the illness, then the others had no chance of escape.’
Godfrey shook his head. ‘No, no. There has to be meaning to this, Oswald. Many abbeys lost nearly all of their monks.’ The excitement in his eyes was turning into a feverish agitation. ‘God was punishing the church, don’t you see? He took the lives of so many priests and monks because of their many sins.’ I drew back, as he was now spitting. ‘Our Lord sees what is happening to our church. The cult of pilgrimage and the selling of relics and indulgences.’ He balled his hand into a fist and waved it in the air. ‘There is no mention of such trinkets and baubles in the bible.’
‘That’s true,’ I replied calmly. ‘But these trinkets, as you call them, are important to many people. They take comfort in buying an indulgence or visiting a shrine. I don’t see the harm in it.’
‘That’s because they’ve been tricked,’ he spat. ‘By the church itself.’ He leant forward and fixed me with fierce, impassioned eyes. ‘Don’t you see, Oswald? This is why God is so angry. The last plague was designed to warn the abbots and archbishops to reform. To put aside their worldly desires and ambitions, and look to the bible for the truth.’
‘Yes. But—’
‘I know that I’m right about this, Oswald,’ he said. ‘The church should have heeded this warning. But they did not. If anything, the deceivers and Pharisees have become emboldened since then. Now they are using another plague to turn God’s house into a tawdry market. A place where they can prey on those poor souls who fear for their lives. Selling them worthless pieces of paper to offer protection against the Pestilence.’ He grasped my arm. ‘You know that I’m right, Oswald. We are at the End of Days. Soon His angels will come forth from Heaven and throw the wicked priests into the flaming furnace!’
I folded my hands on my lap, as there was no point in arguing further, but unfortunately Godfrey was not deterred by this. ‘I have something that I want you to read,’ he said, jumping to his feet and striding across to a bookshelf on the other side of the room, before returning with a small and well-worn manuscript. He pressed this booklet into my hands.
‘What is it?’ I asked, not recognising the title, The Last Days of the Church. It sounded like one of Godfrey’s more turgid reads.
‘It’s written by John Wyclif,’ he said. ‘Read this, and I think you’ll be equally moved.’ Godfrey and I had discussed the author many times before. Wyclif was the Master of Balliol College in Oxford, where he had become the focus of a growing movement to reform the church. He was known as the ‘Gospel Doctor’ in some circles, due to his many sermons on the importance of reading the bible – a stance to which the church itself was generally unsympathetic. In fact, I knew of many clergymen who had never read a single verse of the bible in their whole lives, preferring the works of the theological philosophers such as Thomas Aquinas, Scotus and Peter Lombard, to the actual scriptures. Wyclif’s teachings were seen as troublesome at best, and heretical at worst, and it was only thanks to his friendship with the Archbishop of Canterbury, that he remained tolerated at all.
‘I’ll certainly see what Wyclif has to say,’ I answered, taking the book from Godfrey.
‘I know that you will appreciate Wyclif’s words. I know that we think alike.’
I looked into Godfrey’s eyes and wondered if now was the time to tell him the truth – that we would never think alike? We had spent many hours together discussing religion, but Godfrey had never really listened to my opinions. He was so consumed with his own beliefs that he had always misconstrued my detachment from God as a shared dissatisfaction with the church. But then, how does a person openly admit to doubt in an age of faith? How could I tell him that I had lost my belief in God, as a young boy in a monastery, and that since those days, I had never recovered it.
‘I’ll give this back to you in a few days,’ I said.
‘There’s no hurry,’ he replied. ‘I’ve read it many times. Now it’s time for me to act upon Wyclif’s words.’
‘Act? What do you mean?’ I said nervously, remembering that Godfrey had a history of acting on his conscience. I recalled the occasion when he had threatened to kick over a stall selling pilgrim’s badges in Canterbury cathedral – just as Christ chased the money changers from the temple of Jerusalem. I had talked Godfrey out of this proposal on that occasion, but I doubted I would win a similar argument again. If anything Godfrey had become more zealous in recent months. His self-imposed seclusion from society had only served to fuel his radicalism.
Godfrey went to answer, but then appeared to change his mind. ‘Forgive me, Oswald,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just a turn of phrase, that’s all. I only meant that I intend to live my life according to Wyclif’s principles.’
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not, but equally I didn’t have the will to explore this conversation any further. He had ruined a rare moment of privacy with my wife, so that he could lecture me on the meaning of the Plague, before presenting me with a manuscript that I didn’t want to read. At that moment, I felt only resentment towards the man. ‘Well, thank you for the book,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘I’ll say good night now.’
Godfrey jumped up from his seat. ‘Don’t go yet, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Please. There’s another reason I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Oh yes?’ I groaned.
‘Please. Sit down,’ said Godfrey, looking at me with some censure. ‘This is important.’ He perched back on his own stool and ran his hands over his face. ‘I need to tell you something.’
‘What is it?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m leaving the castle tomorrow.’ Before I could ask another question, he quickly added, ‘I will only be gone for a few hours. You must not worry.’
I thought back to Godfrey’s mysterious remarks that night at the supper table, and couldn’t help but repeat Hesket’s warning. ‘I thought we had all agreed to stay locked within the castle, Godfrey. So why are you putting yourself at risk by leaving?’
He hesitated again. ‘I have no choice,’ he said. ‘I have to reach two people on the island. I have to bring them back here.’
‘Who are they?’
Godfrey hesitated. ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ he said.
‘But what if you return with the Plague?’ I said. ‘Or what if these two other people are suffering from the affliction?’
‘They don’t have the Plague,’ he said.
‘But how can we be sure of that?’
‘You’ll just have to take my
word for it,’ he said adamantly. ‘Just as I accepted your word this morning. When I asked you to be honest about the health of your own family.’
‘But how will the others feel about this?’ I argued. ‘Especially Lord Hesket. You heard his thoughts on new guests at supper tonight.’
‘This is my castle. They will all have to put up with it.’
‘But they’ll object as soon as you raise the portcullis,’ I said. ‘They might even try to stop you leaving.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I’ll slip in and out of the castle without anybody noticing.’
‘But Godfrey—’
He stood up sharply, his patience obviously stretched. ‘Please, Oswald. Stop questioning me. I asked you here because I need your help. If you’re refusing me, then you can leave.’
I looked up at him, wondering for a moment if I did want to help him. ‘I’m sorry, Godfrey,’ I said at length. ‘What is it that you want me to do?’
He walked back towards his wooden chest and retrieved two folded squares of parchment from within. ‘I need you to look after these two letters for me,’ he said. ‘You must deliver them, in the event that I don’t return tomorrow.’ He smiled briefly. ‘After the Plague has abated, of course. I wouldn’t expect you to deliver them until the spring.’
‘Who are they for?’
He passed me the first letter. ‘Take this one to the Archbishop of Canterbury. But only if it’s still Simon Islip,’ he added. ‘I don’t trust anybody else at Canterbury.’
‘Very well.’
He passed me the second square of folded parchment. ‘And this other letter must go to Father John Cubit, at Merton College in Oxford.’
‘Ah, him,’ I said with a huff.