The Butcher Bird Read online

  For Natalie and Adam

  The Black Death of 1348–50 killed an estimated half of the English population. With so many dead, the poorest people could suddenly demand higher pay rates for their labour. The response of the king was a law to suppress wages:

  ‘The King to the Sheriff of Kent, greeting. Since a great part of the population, and especially workers and servants, has now died in this pestilence, many people, seeing the needs of their masters and the shortage of employees, are refusing to work unless they are paid an excessive salary. Others prefer to beg in idleness rather than work for their living. Mindful of the serious inconvenience likely to arise from this shortage, especially of agricultural labourers, we have discussed and considered the matter with our prelates and nobles and the other learned men, and with their unanimous advice, we have ordained that every man or woman in our realm of England, whether free or unfree, who is physically fit and below the age of sixty . . . . should be paid only the fees, liveries, payments or salaries which were usually paid in the part of the country where they are working in the twentieth year of our reign (1346).’

  ‘The Ordinance of Labourers’ (letter from King Edward III

  to the Sheriff of Kent. June 1349)

  This ruling was endorsed and strengthened by Parliament in 1351 to form ‘The Statute of Labourers’.

  THE RED-BACKED SHRIKE

  Lanius collurio

  Once a common migratory visitor to the British shores, this bird butchers rodents, insects and the nestlings of other small birds, and then impales their corpses on thorns, as a larder. This behaviour has earned the shrike the name ‘The Butcher Bird.’

  Prologue

  Somershill Manor, September 1351

  It was the tail end of the morning when the charges were laid before me and I would tell you I was tempted to laugh at first, for the story was nonsense. Or, at least, that is how it sounded to me. Instead I suppressed a smile and carried on. ‘Shouldn’t Father Luke deal with this?’ I said, turning to my reeve, Featherby. ‘It seems a more . . . ecclesiastical matter.’ This was the first manorial court of 1351 and I had spent the last three hours imposing fines on my villagers for neglecting to plough a field, or for allowing their goats to trespass upon a neighbour’s garden. After such triviality, you might expect me to have been pleased for some variety in my caseload. But I have learnt to be wary of excitement. It causes trouble.

  Featherby leant towards me and made a show of whispering. ‘Father Luke thought you should know about this crime, sire.’ He then raised his substantial eyebrows and mouthed a word to me that I think was affray, though his lips moved with such exaggeration, it was impossible to know for certain.

  ‘Tell me the story again,’ I said loudly, trying to disguise my rumbling stomach. It was late morning and the rich scent of roasting duck drifted across the great hall from the kitchens. We should have finished by now.

  Featherby stepped away from me to pull a trembling figure from the crowd. It was John Barrow – a man I recognised immediately, despite his torn clothes and filthy skin. Barrow was often brought before the manorial court, though not because his rents were unpaid, or because he had failed to perform some duty or other about the estate. Instead, the usual complaint against the man concerned his refusal to cease his shrill and piteous grieving. In my opinion his neighbours should have treated him with more sympathy, for he had lost his wife and three children to the Plague – but given the sneers and glowers of those about him, it seemed he had once again tried the village’s patience.

  Featherby shook the miserable man. ‘Tell Lord Somershill what you’ve done now. Go on. He wants to hear it from your own lips.’ Barrow’s response was merely the emission of a strange swallowing noise that both began and ended in his throat.

  A woman with the sharp face of a weasel pushed her way through the crowd. ‘He opened his wife’s grave, sire.That’s what he did.’

  I looked to the man she accused. His skin was pale and moist with sweat. His eyes as veined as a blood orange. ‘Is this true?’ I said, but he didn’t answer. Instead he began to pant like an overheated dog – a condition not assisted by the crowd that drew ever closer about him.

  ‘Stand back,’ I told them. The morning was cold, but their bodies exuded a nervous heat that hung in a low fug across the chamber. They drew back with some reluctance.

  I leant in close to Barrow’s ear, so that the others might not hear me. ‘Did you open your wife’s grave?’ I asked him. ‘You must tell me the truth.’

  He nodded but didn’t speak, only continuing to make the curious gulping sounds in his throat.

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’

  ‘It’s the second time he’s done it,’ said the weasel-faced woman.

  ‘We might have forgiven his sins once. But we shouldn’t forgive them twice. Oh no.’

  I folded my arms and glared in her direction – as fiercely as a boy of nineteen might. ‘Are you the judge here?’ I asked her.

  She looked to the floor. ‘No, sire.’

  ‘Then keep your opinions to yourself.’

  I turned once again to John Barrow. Now that the surging mob had backed away, he stood alone in the reeds of the floor seeming as unsteady as a newly born calf. ‘I ask you again, Master Barrow. Why did you open the grave of your dead wife?’

  He wiped a ball of spittle from his mouth. ‘I wanted to hold her again.’

  ‘That wasn’t all you did,’ came a voice from the crowd. I couldn’t see its owner, but knew it to be the same busybody as before. At her words the hall erupted with angry calls to punish the sinner.

  I shouted for them to be silent, but they ignored me. And then, as I looked upon their agitated faces, I remembered an earlier time, not twelve months before, when I had witnessed another frenzied crowd such as this burn a boy to death.

  With this memory soldering my nerve, I raised my voice to a new level. ‘Enough,’ I bellowed. ‘Or I’ll fine you for disorder.’ For a while they were subdued, allowing me to turn my attentions back to Barrow. I took his hand, hoping that some kindness might calm him. ‘Please, Barrow. Just tell me the truth.’

  His fingers were hard to the touch and as cold as the icy stream. His voice a thin, rasping trickle. ‘I had a dream.There was a fiend. A demon. It told me to return to my wife’s grave.’

  ‘And did you?’The faces were once again drawing in about me.

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  My stomach sank. ‘But why?’

  ‘The demon told me I had begot a child upon her.’

  I dropped his hand sharply. ‘You cannot beget a child upon a corpse, you fool!’

  Barrow caught my arm, his fingers now claws. ‘But it wasn’t a child, sire.’ He pulled me closer – close enough for me to catch his sour, feverish stink. ‘I heard a scratching from within the coffin.’

  ‘Don’t lie,’ I said.

  ‘I lifted the lid,’ he whispered, digging his nails into my sleeve. ‘But I should have left it shut. I should have left the creature in there.’

  ‘What creature?’

  ‘It was a monstrous bird. With great talons and a huge hooked beak.’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ I said, pushing the man away.

  Barrow covered his face, his words now seeping through tear- stained hands. ‘I saw the creature fly away into the night.’ He collapsed into the reeds, weeping pitifully. The crowd drew back, calling him both a sinner and a devil. But as I watched Barrow shudder and convulse upon the floor, my disgust at his story slowly turned to sympathy. It was not sin that had spawned this delusion. It was madness.

  Featherby coughed. ‘What should we do with him, sire?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Shall I bolt him into the pillory
?’ he whispered. Loudly. ‘I’m sure a night in the cage would sort him out.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘No.’

  Featherby sighed with disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’

  I looked my reeve squarely in the eye. ‘I said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘But he sired a monstrous bird,’ came weasel-face’s voice. ‘You can’t let such a thing live.’

  ‘I told you to be quiet before,’ I said. ‘I won’t say it again.’

  But still she didn’t listen. ‘You should torture Barrow, sire. Make him tell us where the bird is!’ This idea caught hold, and once again the fever erupted. How easily reason is destroyed by fear. They shouted and waved at me, hopping up and down as if the floor were a skillet of boiling resin.

  ‘He wants the bird to take our children, because his own are dead,’ came one voice.

  ‘It’s a butcher bird,’ said another.

  ‘Hang the man,’ said a third.

  Now I roared with such force they could do nothing but fall silent. ‘Go home!’ I told them. ‘The manorial court is closed.’

  Slowly they dispersed, but not Featherby. He sidled up beside me. ‘What of John Barrow?’

  ‘Lock him in the gaol house for the night. Let his madness wane.’Then I pointed at weasel-face. ‘And put her in there with him.’

  Chapter One

  Versey Castle is never colder than in March, when the winter winds have frozen its walls since All Hallows and the milky sun is still too weak to disperse the vapours from the river.

  It was not an auspicious month in which to give birth, but my older sister Clemence was heavy with child and supposedly in her confinement. Lying in bed, however, did not suit my sister. Instead she wandered the orchards, or even groomed her unpleasant horse in its stable – always in the face of firm opposition from Mother and her physician. Eventually, to provide some relief from this badgering, Clemence had written to me at Somershill and begged for my company at Versey until the child was born. This was a request I had found difficult to refuse, since Clemence’s husband was dead and she had nobody to turn to but myself. It was not even that the man had died, which would have been poor fortune enough for a woman expecting a child. Instead he had been murdered only days after their wedding – surviving long enough to assault my sister and conceive the child that she now carried. The wheel of fortune had not turned in Clemence’s favour for many months, so I could no longer allow her to face its cruel momenta alone.

  And Clemence was glad of my company.

  At least I think she was.

  * * *

  Soon after my arrival, I persuaded my sister to walk with me one morning in the hours before Mother usually rose from bed. I needed to speak with her on a delicate subject – on a topic I had been avoiding for months. As we walked through the meadow, Clemence gripped my hand and stepped with care through the grass, the weight of her belly threatening to imbalance her at any moment. ‘My ankles have swollen to the size of old Eleanor’s,’ she told me as we made our way towards a favourite seat beneath the oaks.

  ‘Perhaps you would be better to rest, Clemence? Raise your feet above your head.’

  She grimaced. ‘Not you as well, Oswald? Mother has done nothing but pester me about resting with my feet in the air.’

  ‘She gave birth to nine children. That must qualify her to have an opinion?’

  ‘She doesn’t know everything.’ Clemence then held her side and groaned. ‘He’s kicking his foot into my ribs. Such an energetic boy.’

  ‘He?’

  She turned to me sharply. ‘Yes. It’s a boy. And before you say another word, there’s nothing wrong with him. Despite what Mother’s been saying.’

  I took her small hand again. ‘Of course there isn’t.’ But I wished I had felt more confidence in this statement, for Clemence was carrying a large child that was already two weeks overdue, according to the midwife’s calculation. My knowledge of childbirth was poor, but it was sufficient to know that a late birth was more likely to end badly. We sat on the stone bench that looked down the valley towards the castle. Before us the silver catkins perched on the willow like a host of tiny rabbit tails, and the first of the Lent lilies peeked their yellow heads through the grass and nodded in the wind. In the distance, the two young de Caburn sisters, now Clemence’s stepdaughters, ran into the woods, pursuing some of their usual mischief. We watched their blonde heads bob through the meadow and then disappear into the trees.

  For a moment spring was in the air and I felt all the hope and promise of the turning season, but then I saw Gilbert riding over the drawbridge into the castle. Fie was my valet from Somershill and there was something unlikely and even ominous in his presence here. I should have returned then to greet him, but as Clemence launched into the next conversation the thought soon slipped from my mind.

  She coughed. ‘When my son is born, will you keep your promise to me?’

  I was tired after a succession of poor nights’ sleep, so it took me a few moments to fathom what she was talking about. Unfortunately Clemence read this hesitation as evasion. ‘I knew I couldn’t trust you,’ she said, clapping her hands upon her thighs. ‘You mean to keep Versey as well as Somershill.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said, now understanding her original question. I had once made a rash promise to my sister, just after her husband’s murder. Unfortunately I could not be certain that it was now in my power to keep it. ‘It’s not entirely my decision. Remember? The earl instructed me to take over this estate.’ She shrugged, seeming to have forgotten that I had not asked for the wooded hills and poor land of Versey. This castle was cold and grey with only the sky and a wide river for company. She could keep the dreary place as far as I was concerned.

  ‘But what about my son?’ she said. ‘He’s a true de Caburn. Why should he be cheated out of his birthright?’

  ‘I’m not trying to cheat him.’

  ‘Then speak to the earl on his behalf.’

  ‘I promise to try. When the opportunity arises.’

  She snorted and pulled a strand of black hair from her face. ‘You promise?’

  ‘Yes, Clemence. I do. Even if your child turns out to be a girh’

  She stroked her expansive belly and looked at me with a drop of the malevolence of old. ‘It will be a son.’

  I touched her shoulder. Feeling the soft fur of her miniver cloak. ‘I hope so, Clemence. If that’s what matters to you.’

  She sighed. ‘You think me cruel?That I don’t care for my own sex?’

  ‘No. It’s just that all of your dead husband’s children have been girls. Maybe you should prepare yourself for a daughter?’

  She shrugged me away. ‘What use is there in being a woman in this world, Oswald? Look how I’ve fared, compared to you.’

  I took her meaning well enough. ‘I didn’t want any of this, Clemence.’

  ‘But it came to you anyway.’

  In the distance we could hear Mother calling for us and suddenly I remembered the reason for persuading my sister to walk with me so far from the castle. ‘Listen, Clemence.There’s something I want to tell you,’ I said. ‘Before Mother finds us.’

  She turned to look at my face, her eyes suddenly wary. ‘Oh yes?’

  I took a deep breath, for this was not the easiest of confessions. ‘I went to the graveyard to look for Thomas Starvecrow’s grave.’

  ‘Who?’

  I puffed my bps in frustration. Was she being deliberately dull- witted? ‘You know who I’m talking about. Thomas Starvecrow.’ At the repeat of this singular name, a .shadow crossed her face. She knew the name. We both did.

  They say that truth can sometimes be stranger than invention, and in this case the adage held true – for the previous summer I had discovered that I was not really Oswald de Lacy at all. That boy had been buried in a grave marked Thomas Starvecrow, after his death in infancy.

  So who was I then? If not Oswald de Lacy? Lord Somershill.

  Thomas Starvecrow, of course. No grande
r than the son of a poor girl who had been employed as a wet nurse to the latest de Lacy infant. Her name was Adeline Starvecrow, and though she had managed to feed two infants, there had been a divergence in our fortunes. Whereas I had thrived, this boy had faded – and when he had died at eight weeks, Adeline had substituted me, her own son, for him. I don’t believe there was evil or ambition in her act; she had simply feared being blamed for the death of a noble child.

  So why, you might ask, when this secret was revealed, had I not been thrown into the streets? My mother (or the woman I had grown up to believe was my mother – Lady Margaret of Somershill) had always known of the deceit. After giving birth to nine children, with only three surviving to adulthood, she had not wanted to risk another confinement – so she had chosen to ignore the slipping of this cuckoo into her nest. In any case, I was the last son. The third spare. Nobody more important than that.

  There were only three people now alive who knew this secret. Myself, Clemence, and Mother. It was obvious why I kept quiet – but for Clemence and Mother it was a practical decision. With my older brothers dead, there was no other male heir, and at least I bore the de Lacy name, even if their blood did not flow in my veins. In any case, any revelation about my true beginnings would bring great shame and notoriety to the family. It was expedient . for all three of us to say nothing.

  Clemence shifted from one buttock to another – the weight of her unborn child causing her some pain. ‘Why would you bother looking for Thomas Starvecrow’s grave?’ she asked.

  ‘I wanted to put the boy’s coffin in our family crypt,’ I admitted. ‘He was a true de Lacy, after all.’

  Her face hardened into a scowl. ‘You should leave such matters alone,’ she said. ‘My brother died as a baby and you took his place. You shouldn’t be messing around with his coffin.’

  Suddenly we saw Mother beating her way through the grass towards us, with all the vigour of a child with an urgent tale to tell. Our time alone was limited.

  ‘But there is more to my story, Clemence,’ I said. ‘Please listen to me.’