by S. D. Sykes
I hesitated for a moment, exchanging a glance with Filomena. I sensed a note of caution in her eyes, but I proceeded nonetheless. These questions needed to be asked, sooner or later. ‘Godfrey was working on something before he died,’ I said. ‘A collaboration with a priest called John Cubit.’
‘John Cubit?’ said Old Simon, screwing up his eyes, so that they disappeared completely beneath his heavy lids. ‘I don’t know a priest by that name. What sort of collaboration was it?’
‘We’re not sure,’ I admitted. ‘Godfrey described this work as their “shared vision”.’
The old monk began to smile. ‘And you’re wondering if I know what it was?’
‘Do you?’
‘No,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head. ‘I cannot help you, I’m afraid.’ He sank further into the chair. ‘Godfrey and I have rarely spoken in recent years. Other than to argue about the condition of the books in this library, of course.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘I spend most of my time at the priory, you see. And I only arrived here at Castle Eden a day before you did,’ he sighed. ‘Sadly, Godfrey did not have the time to converse with me during his last days.’
‘You’ve never discussed matters of faith with Godfrey?’ I asked.
The old man scratched at his temple, causing a small flurry of dry skin to flutter down onto the black wool of his habit. ‘No more than I’ve discussed faith with anybody else,’ he said.
‘Were you aware that Godfrey was unhappy with aspects of the church?’
He hesitated, before his frown was replaced with a smile again. ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘You’re talking about his disdain for rosaries and relics, aren’t you?’ He then shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘That was just talk, Lord Somershill. A foolish fancy.’ He clutched his hands onto the arms of the chair and then leant forward to speak to me in a whisper. ‘But I admired his conviction.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It is good to question, Lord Somershill. Especially when a man is young. When I was a novice at the abbey, we liked to debate amongst ourselves that the Papal seat should be located in Rome, not Avignon. Can you imagine such a thing?’ He gave a distant smile. ‘We thought ourselves so daring. Sitting in the cloisters and whispering, when we should have been praying in silent contemplation.’
‘I think that Godfrey’s work was more than a fancy,’ I said. ‘He and Cubit were followers of John Wyclif.’
The old monk furrowed his brow. ‘Who?’
‘John Wyclif. The master of Balliol College. He’s a controversial figure within the church, I believe.’
The old man looked into the air, giving my question a lot of thought. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Somershill. I’ve not heard of this man,’ he said. ‘Our abbey is very small and isolated, so we do not hear much news of the outside world. Are you sure that Godfrey was associated with this Wyclif?’
I went to say more, when we were taken completely by surprise as Alice Cross burst through the door, holding something to her breast, as if it were a child’s doll. As she ran across the room towards Old Simon, I realised it was the limp body of a dead bird.
Old Simon recognised his crow immediately. ‘Corvina?’ he said, as he grasped the bird from Alice Cross’s hands and let her lie on his lap. ‘What’s happened to her, Mistress Cross?’ He attempted to shake the bird back to life. ‘I don’t understand.’
Alice Cross bowed her head to the old man – her voice soft and sympathetic for once. ‘I’m so sorry, Father. I tried to stop him, but it was too late.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was that brute from the Low Countries. The young Dutchman.’
‘He did this?’ he asked, before letting out a long, rasping whimper. ‘Are you sure, Mistress Cross?’ He then pulled back the bird’s wing to expose a breast denuded of feathers. The exposed, yellowish skin beneath was skewered with thin metal pins. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘What is this?’
‘They are dress pins, Father,’ she said. ‘I caught him in the stable.’ Her words were fast and her breathing was rapid. ‘I tried to stop him, but he had already broken her neck.’
Old Simon pulled out one of the pins and then studied it for a moment, holding this thin strip of metal to the light, as if he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He then set his face into a vicious scowl, clutched the bird to his chest with one hand and then pressed the other to the arm of the chair, rising unsteadily to his feet. ‘The boy will pay for this atrocity,’ he growled, before he made for the door, brushing away the walking stick when Filomena offered it.
‘Wait for me, Father,’ said Alice Cross as she scampered after him. ‘You’ll slip. You know how greasy those steps are.’ When the monk didn’t answer, she called again. ‘Take care, Father. Please. You don’t want to fall!’
The old monk did not heed her words. In fact, he lurched down the steps with hair-raising speed, before he threw open the door to the inner ward with the force of a much younger man. Filomena and I followed in his wake, emerging out into daylight to find a selection of the household gathered together at one end of the inner ward. Lord Hesket was strolling about with his wife on his arm, while his daughter, Lady Emma, was shyly watching Sandro and Hugh from a corner. Pieter de Groot and Hans were seated on a short bench, cleaning a selection of their tools with oiled rags.
Old Simon hobbled towards Hans, stopping in front of the young man and dangling the dead crow in his face. ‘How could you do this? You devil. You know how much I loved this bird.’ Hans reacted by peering at the creature, as if he were inspecting his work.
As usual, it was de Groot who spoke up on his nephew’s behalf. ‘What is this?’ he said. ‘Why are you showing us a dead bird?’
The old monk shook with rage. ‘I raised Corvina from a chick. A poor, unwanted nestling. And now your nephew has killed her.’ He lifted Corvina’s broken wing and then released it to fall limply from his hand. ‘Look what he’s done. He’s maimed her. For what reason? The boy is a devil.’
By now the other guests had wandered over, drawn to this scene by the shouting. Lady Emma took one look at the dead bird and began to groan, making that strange, unearthly sound in her throat. Sensing a tantrum was coming, Lord Hesket ushered his daughter away, commanding his uninterested wife to comfort the child. Lady Isobel grasped Emma’s hand and dragged her to the other side of the inner ward, as Hesket returned his attentions to the confrontation over Corvina.
‘What’s going on here?’ he asked.
Pieter de Groot was now on his feet, lifting one of his small hammers in the air. ‘These people are making accusations against my nephew,’ he answered. ‘They say he killed a bird.’
It was Alice Cross who spoke next, still breathless from her ascent and subsequent descent from the library. ‘I say that he did it,’ she shouted. ‘Because I saw him.’
De Groot regarded the woman for a moment and then unexpectedly turned to me. ‘Did Lord Somershill tell you to say that?’ he said, waving the hammer in my face. ‘This man likes to blame everything on Hans.’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘I didn’t say a thing to her. Mistress Cross saw your nephew’s cruelty with her own eyes.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said de Groot. ‘This is just another of your lies. Hans has a good soul. He would never do the things you say.’
I glanced at Hans, not seeing the kind-hearted young man that de Groot had described. Instead I saw the face of a sly youth who was relishing the unpleasant drama of this skirmish. A devious smile had crossed his cracked lips.
‘Your nephew has the blackest of hearts,’ shouted Alice Cross. ‘We should break his arms and stick pins into his chest. To see how much he likes it.’
De Groot turned on the woman. ‘Who are you to say such things to me? You. A servant!’ The Dutchman waved the hammer again, but this time it swung a little too close to my face.
‘That’s enough,’ I said, grasping his wrist. ‘Put the hammer down.’
De Groot tried
to swing again, when Lord Hesket came to my assistance, pushing the Dutchman to the floor with surprising force. ‘How dare you threaten a lord with a weapon,’ he said, as he placed a boot onto de Groot’s leg, preventing the man from returning to his feet.
‘I was defending my nephew,’ bleated de Groot. ‘These people are always telling lies about him. He didn’t hurt that bird. They just like to blame him for everything. Just because he’s not English.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Hesket. ‘The boy has a history of malevolence.’
De Groot struggled to answer. ‘Well, what does it matter anyway?’ He blustered. ‘It was just a bird. Not a man.’
‘She was not just a bird to me,’ roared Old Simon, tears now flooding down the wrinkled furrows of his face. ‘I loved Corvina.’
‘We should have cooked it in a pie,’ said de Groot. ‘It’s foolish to let a bird fly around a castle like that.’
Hesket depressed his foot again, causing the Dutchman to scowl. ‘Be quiet, or I’ll throw you and your nephew into the dungeon.’ He pointed at Hans, who was now quietly retreating towards the nearest door. ‘Do you understand me?’ he said.
De Groot hesitated to answer, looking up at the faces bearing down on him – his own face flushed with a mixture of anger and humiliation. ‘Yes, my Lord,’ he said at length. ‘I understand.’
Hesket released his foot from de Groot’s leg. ‘Then get back to your cellar and give us some peace from your unpleasant company.’
‘But what about Corvina?’ said Old Simon, still nursing the dead bird in his arms. ‘The boy must be punished.’
Lord Hesket turned to the monk, ready to respond, when a thin wail rang through the air. It came from the other end of the inner ward, where Lady Emma was standing beside her stepmother and Robert of Lyndham. They looked on helplessly, as the girl threw herself to the ground and began to roar.
Hesket pushed past the onlookers to reach Emma, as the girl beat her fists against the ground. ‘Hush now,’ he said, as he knelt down to gently place a hand on her shoulder. But it was too late, for Emma’s tantrum had set sail and would not be blown off course.
Hesket turned to his wife accusingly. ‘You were supposed to be comforting her,’ he said.
‘I was trying to,’ she protested.
‘It didn’t look that way to me.’
Lyndham stepped in at this point. ‘This is my fault, Lord Hesket,’ he said. ‘I distracted your wife from Emma.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I heard shouting and came out to ask Lady Isobel what was going on. I didn’t mean to divert her from Lady Emma’s care.’
Lord Hesket answered this with a peevish nod, before he turned his attentions back to Emma, attempting to haul his daughter to her feet. When he’d finally achieved this, refusing any help from either myself or Lyndham, he dragged the girl towards his apartment, leaving his wife to trail along resentfully in his wake.
The inner ward soon emptied after their departure, as Old Simon nursed his crow in his hands and wept as Alice Cross looked on awkwardly – as if she had no idea how to offer sympathy. I was tempted to leave myself, but it felt callous to walk away from this scene without making some effort to console the man. So I approached the monk and said something trite about Corvina having had a long and happy life, but my words were of no comfort. I could see he was heartbroken, for he shook with grief – a sorrow he had not shown at the death of his own nephew.
‘I want to bury her beside the graveyard,’ he told me.
‘But that’s not possible, Father Simon,’ I said softly. ‘It would mean raising the portcullis again.’
‘What would you have me do, then?’ he said. ‘Throw her over the wall, as a meal for the foxes?’
I was momentarily lost for words. ‘Could you not keep her body in a box for now,’ I suggested. ‘Bury her in the spring?’
He turned to me with bloodshot eyes. ‘No I could not, Lord Somershill! I will not spend the whole winter smelling her body rotting away. Corvina will be buried in the graveyard,’ he said firmly, balling his hand into a fist. ‘And that’s an end to it.’
I bowed my head and sighed. ‘If that’s your wish, Father Simon.’
‘It is. You can come with me, or I will go alone.’
Chapter Fifteen
The light was fading as we emerged through the gate onto the bluff of land between the castle and the chapel. The sky was cold – violet blue and skirted by a line of small, downy clouds floating just above the horizon. The temperature was dropping with each moment, and yet here I was, accompanying an old fool on his mission to bury a bird in the hallowed ground of this graveyard. I asked Old Simon to be quick about his task. The less time we spent out here, the better. If I saw any movement in the nearby woodland, then we would retreat immediately to the castle, regardless of his desire to give the bird a Christian burial.
I kept my eyes on the trees, as the old monk knelt down to place Corvina’s battered body into a very shallow grave. ‘I shall never understand such cruelty, Lord Somershill,’ he said, as he covered her body with handfuls of sticky soil. ‘Why does a man kill another creature for no reason?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ I answered.
He wiped his hand across his eye, removing a tear. ‘But, if I could comprehend the cause of this sin, Lord Somershill, then at least I could try to find forgiveness.’
I hesitated, unsure at first whether to share my own opinion about Hans. ‘It seems to me that there are some people who gain pleasure by causing pain to others,’ I said. ‘They don’t respect or even acknowledge the usual values of humanity.’
He looked up at me, his eyes glistening with tears. ‘Have you met such people before?’
I wanted to tell him that yes, I had – most of whom had been at the monastery where I’d been educated. But now was not the time to launch an attack on his church. ‘Not many,’ I answered. ‘I believe they are a rarity.’
Old Simon crossed himself at this. ‘I will be praying for the Dutch boy,’ he said, as he leant on his stick and rose shakily to his feet. ‘Once I’ve found the strength to forgive him.’
I offered my arm to the old man, and we were heading back towards the castle when I became aware of movement behind the wall of the graveyard.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘There’s somebody over there. We need to get back inside.’
‘Who is it?’ he asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But let’s not wait to find out.’
I steered Old Simon towards the castle gate, but he resisted me, looking back over his shoulder towards the wall. ‘But look, Lord Somershill,’ he said. ‘It’s just two little girls. They cannot hurt us.’
I turned around to see a pair of faces, peeping above the stone. The older girl looked at us earnestly and then gave a wave, but the younger girl tried to hide her face, pulling the edge of her shawl across her mouth. But she had not been swift enough, for I had seen what she was trying to hide. There was a fissure in her top lip – a gaping flap that revealed a pair of skewed teeth and the pink skin of her gums.
Old Simon called across to them, his words muffled by the wind. ‘What do you want, my children?’ he shouted.
They looked at one another, before the older girl called back. ‘Our mother sent us here,’ she said. ‘To ask you to hear our brother’s Last Confession.’
‘What’s wrong with your brother?’ I called.
The girl hesitated, whispering something to her smaller sister before she answered. ‘He has a fever,’ she called back, but there was a note of uncertainty in her voice, and I knew immediately that she was lying.
‘Are there others in your household with this sickness?’ I asked.
The girl shook her head. ‘No. Just my brother John,’ she said, before she received a hefty shove in the ribs from the younger girl. This was clearly another lie.
Old Simon took my arm. ‘I must go to them, Lord Somershill,’ he said. ‘I know this family. Particularly the boy the
y speak of. I baptised him.’
‘But he’s dying of plague, Father,’ I whispered.
The old man frowned at this. ‘Then I must hurry to him. Before it’s too late.’
He went to move away from me, but I pulled him back. ‘You can’t go,’ I said.
He looked at me in consternation. ‘Why ever not? I am needed to hear the boy’s Last Confession.’
‘He is infected with plague,’ I reiterated. ‘You cannot risk going to their house.’
‘I can do as I please,’ he said indignantly.
‘No, you cannot. We made a commitment to one another,’ I said. ‘We agreed to stay isolated from the rest of the island.’
‘But—’
‘You made the same promise as everybody else, Father Simon. Remember?’
‘But I cannot abandon these people,’ he said, trying to shake my hand from his cassock. ‘The poor boy will die without Absolution.’
‘I will not allow you to bring plague into the castle,’ I said firmly. ‘Not for the sake of this boy. Especially when there is nothing that you can do for him.’
‘I can hear his Last Confession,’ he snapped. ‘He will have a good death, at least.’
‘Then go to him,’ I said, releasing my hand from the old man’s arm. ‘But do not hope to return. The castle gates will not be opened to you.’
‘But—’
‘I will not let you risk the lives of my wife and my son.’
He regarded me with rage for a moment, before the sense in my words filtered through. He then bowed his head and sighed. ‘I understand, Lord Somershill,’ he said. ‘I see that you put yourself and your own family above all others. It is a common sin.’
‘I only want to protect them,’ I said firmly. ‘I will not apologise for that. If you had children, then you would understand.’
The old monk looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘At least let me speak to these girls and explain myself.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t go any nearer to them, Father. They may be infected.’
‘But—’