Plague Land Page 11

  Looking back now, it began as a pleasant afternoon. For the next hour or so de Caburn and I sat together at one end of the long table and discussed our neighbouring estates. The ale made it easier to converse with a man twenty years older than myself, and de Caburn was welcome company after the months I had spent cooped up with my mother and sister. He was not only well-informed about farming, but also knew much about the wider world – since he often travelled to London and dined with other knights and barons.

  Or so he claimed.

  And, of course, he had fought alongside Prince Edward at Cressy, which gave him every right to be welcomed at a nobleman’s table, no matter how grand their birth. But then, such accidents of birth meant nothing to him. Or so he once again claimed. You must judge a man on his own qualities, he told me – but then proceeded to spew out a torrent of abuse against those not as grandly born as himself.

  Because, worse than the pompous earls who declined to invite him to supper, were the merchants and traders of London. Though de Caburn farmed few sheep himself, he had taken against this rank of society due to their success at controlling the price of wool. He hated the way they huddled together in towns like pigeons, extending the upper storeys of their houses almost to touch the bedchamber of their neighbour’s opposite. And he despised their wives – women who would openly flout the sumptuary laws of dress, wearing the furs and jewellery of a lady, when they were often no better than dairymaids. They had not been born into nobility, so they had no business pretending to be.

  Yet he reserved his blackest bile for the newly empowered poor. The tenants, labourers, bondsmen and villeins. The people who rented our lands and worked our fields. His family had spent many years ruling over the Versey estate, and yet now there were pig-herds, shepherds and reeves, holding him to ransom over their wages.

  The more ale we drank, the more attractive seemed his view of the world and its uncomplicated logic. He was a handsome man, despite his leathered and pitted skin, and it was easy to be charmed by him. If we allowed our peasants too much power, then their inexperience and lack of education would lead to chaos and starvation. They didn’t possess the innate skills of the nobility to farm the land and feed the populace. I raised my pewter cup to this incontrovertible truth, though fully conscious, even in my drunken state, that our stableboy Piers would have better known how to plant a field of barley than I.

  The gauze of alcohol masks the ugly, and for those hours I was the compatriot of de Caburn. We were brothers in arms. Knights and warriors, fighting a battle against the feeble minds of the peasantry. Even the carved faces in the arches of the hall looked down upon us and grinned.

  And then we came to speak about my sister. I took a long swig of ale for courage and turned the conversation to Clemence. ‘I have some concerns, Walter, regarding this marriage you’re proposing.’

  His face altered. ‘What manner of concerns, Oswald?’ It was the first time he had used my Christian name and it felt as out of place as dancing by a deathbed. ‘Clemence will be well-cared for at Versey. If that’s what worries you.’

  ‘I’m sure she will be, Walter. But—’ I tried to remember the words I had prepared on the ride here, but the ale had shuffled my memory and suddenly I felt unable to retrieve the right cards.

  Muttering something, I turned to see de Caburn eying me suspiciously. ‘You won’t receive any better offer for your sister,’ he told me. ‘She is a little more saggy in the lower lip than most brides.’

  I didn’t care for this comparison of my sister to an aging horse, and my warm feelings towards de Caburn began to cool. ‘I’m not sure I can give my permission for this match,’ I said, perfectly clearly this time.

  De Caburn slapped me roundly across the back. ‘Of course you can. Your sister needs a new stable and a good ride.’ He laughed as crudely as a scholar who has just drawn a phallus in the margin of a manuscript, and suddenly I noted that hairs grew from his nostrils. Now he didn’t appear so handsome or charming.

  ‘I’m not sure the union is in Clemence’s interests,’ I told him. ‘There’s the matter of my father’s codicil.’

  De Caburn sat up straight. ‘What did you say, boy? You should speak more clearly.’

  So – I was a boy to him, despite our pleasant afternoon of farm talk. ‘There is a codicil in father’s will concerning Clemence’s marital state,’ I said. ‘It may not be in either of your interests to form this union.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What codicil?’

  ‘Clemence will be cut out from inheriting the Somershill estate as a married woman.’ I looked for a reaction from de Caburn, but none was forthcoming. Not even the twitch of an eye. ‘If Clemence were married and then I were to die, the estate would pass to a distant cousin of my father’s.’

  ‘And if she wasn’t married?’

  ‘She would inherit the estate of course.’

  De Caburn tipped his head to one side and leant forward. I noticed his hand unfurl on the table like the claws of a cat. ‘And are you intending to die, de Lacy?’

  ‘No. I’m not.’ I coughed. ‘Though we never know what the future has planned for us.’

  I hoped he might nod in agreement. Instead, a cynical smile twisted itself across his lips. ‘It’s admirable you have such concern for Clemence’s inheritance, but I imagine you’re intending to marry and have offspring of your own?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  De Caburn suddenly banged the table with his mug. ‘For Christ’s sake, de Lacy. Are you a sodomite? Is that it?’ The clunk reverberated about the hall and even roused the dirty servant who had resumed his place by the fire. The dogs behind the heavy door scratched and whimpered.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Even a sodomite can marry to produce an heir.’ He leant forward and whispered. ‘I know of many such men who poke their wives and keep their eyes shut. It gets the job done.’

  ‘I’m not a sodomite. I intend to marry and have children.’

  He sat back and rubbed his stomach with both hands. ‘Then I cannot understand your concern. You mean to keep the estate in your own bloodline.’

  ‘I merely think Clemence should wait until I myself have a wife, and a child is born. That’s all.’

  ‘When might that be? Do you have a bride in mind?’ I shrugged. ‘Then Heaven help your poor sister. She could be a hump-necked dowager by the time you get around to it.’

  ‘I’m not sure that—’

  ‘Come on, de Lacy! She might feel free to marry. But who would want her?’ He paused. ‘Is that fair to Clemence?’

  I began to say something, but the words would not come out. This was nothing but a half-baked pie of a story, with only fresh air as filling. And I shouldn’t have placed it on the table.

  De Caburn held out his hand to me. ‘Let’s forget about this matter. It has no bearing on my intended marriage.’

  I shook his hand. The skin was rough and calloused and his grip was crushing. ‘Very well.’

  I would tell you I felt satisfied with this result. De Caburn appeared to be marrying my sister for love – but somehow the merry mood of the afternoon had dissipated. My head was no longer warm with the glow of self-satisfaction and conceit. Now I felt sick – as if I’d eaten a whole side of pig fat. The dirty servant had stoked up the fire, and the flames were re-heating the stink of dog and rotten cabbage that seemed to hang about the hall.

  De Caburn filled my cup and I drank some more ale in the vain hope it might rebalance my humours – but it only gave rise to the desire to vomit.

  Then he laughed at me. ‘Can’t take your ale, eh?’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I said, as I began to heave.

  I tried to breathe deeply, but it is impossible to keep a stomach still when it begins to roll, particularly if it is full of ale. I felt as sick as my first sailing on a Thames wherry boat. De Caburn sent the servant for an empty half-barrel and then cheered each time I spewed into it. When this indignity was finally over, h
e bade me sleep off my troubles on a truckle bed in the anteroom to the hall.

  It was an offer I should not have accepted.

  I woke from my stupor later that afternoon, when a shard of light hit my face from the narrow arrow slit in the wall. My head was still giddy and my throat dry and cracked, but I forced my feet onto the floor, knowing I should return to Somershill before the night set in.

  I brushed down my hose, removing flakes of regurgitated food from the woollen weave, only to realise that I had vomited the image of a fleur-de-lis onto my own leg. It raised a smile. I even considered showing my leg to de Caburn. Perhaps we could share a joke? But then I heard voices.

  I went to the door and lingered.

  The conversation was between two men. Their words were hushed and conspiratorial, but one of the voices was low and muffled and resounded from the walls like the boom of a bittern. Opening the door a crack I peeped out to see this voice belonged to a man who had not been in the castle earlier. In fact I didn’t recognise him at all. The skin of his face was battle-scarred and as tanned as a ploughman’s. As he spoke to de Caburn an uneasy feeling came over me and I chose to remain in the shadows.

  Though this new man spoke quietly, the low tone of his voice meant his words travelled. ‘Do you want me to do it now?’ he said. ‘While he sleeps?’ De Caburn shook his head and ran a finger along the edge of his sword.

  ‘But it has to be done before you marry?’ said the scarred man. ‘Or she doesn’t get the estate.’

  This time de Caburn nodded.

  ‘I could do it as he rides back. People would blame bandits.’

  De Caburn nodded again and then they turned to look at the door to my room, giving me only a moment to dart out of sight. My heart stopped, as it suddenly became startlingly plain to me how ill-considered this visit had been. Far from protecting me, the codicil story had only succeeded in placing my life in more danger. De Caburn now believed I needed to be dead before he married Clemence, or she would never inherit Somershill.

  I had been such a fool.

  I considered my options quickly. I could try talking my way out of this corner by explaining the situation to de Caburn. Perhaps we could laugh it off with a mug of ale and a dig in the ribs – as I admitted to inventing the story in order to test his resolve in marrying my sister. But somehow I doubted this would work. The presence of his unpleasant-looking friend was enough to convince me that escape was a better plan.

  I peeked around the door again to see de Caburn and his companion deep in conversation, but realised the only route out of this place was to pass them – although only if I could keep to the very edge of the hall. But this would be difficult to achieve, as my creeping footsteps would doubtless rouse the dogs who were currently silent behind their door, but who would sniff my subterfuge without the slightest problem.

  It may be difficult to force entry to a castle, but it is even harder to break out. Mustering my courage, I crept from the room, but within moments was greeted by the small and pale face of Mary de Caburn. The girl had been loitering behind a pillar, listening to her father’s conversation and watching my movements in silence. Now she stood in my path.

  My heart thudded to a standstill and I nearly gasped out loud, for I thought she would give me away. Instead she pulled my ear to her lips and whispered very softly, ‘Go back. I know another way out.’

  I hesitated. Was trusting this ragged little girl a good idea? She might be planning to lure me back into the room and then summon her father. And who could blame the girl, as my entrapment would no doubt raise her in his estimation.

  But I had helped Mary earlier, and gambled that she wanted to return the favour. And, after all, what other options did I have? My plan to creep around the hall in the hope of not being seen was, at best, optimistic.

  After we tiptoed back into the antechamber, Mary lifted back a heavy tapestry to expose a wooden door, which seemed as firmly shut as a portcullis. Once again I felt my heart stop. It was surely locked. But Mary poked her nimble fingers into the tiny crack between the rail and the frame – and slowly the door opened on its hinges without making a single creak. She then pushed me through the narrow gap into a dark void that soon revealed itself to be the bottom of a spiral stairwell. She motioned for me to follow her up the steps.

  ‘I can’t jump from the roof, Mary.’

  ‘Just follow me,’ she urged in a whisper.

  And when we had climbed but one revolution, we came to a hole in the curve of the wall. This had once been an arrow slit, but stones had been pulled from either side of the opening in the way a chick breaks out of an egg. Now it was just wide enough for a boy of my build to squeeze through. Mary went first and dropped down softly onto the mossy bank below – a narrow strip of land between the castle wall and the moat. I followed, falling gracelessly onto the bank, and we stole around the outer bailey until we reached the drawbridge. Mary then pointed to my horse Tempest, who was fortunately still tethered on the other bank, before she disappeared into some long grass and I had lost my opportunity to thank her.

  I wasted no time in crossing the bridge, mounting Tempest and galloping towards the cover of the forest – heading for the first gap between the trees, in the hope this path would soon meet up with my route home. And to begin with it seemed we were making good progress, but the path meandered in twisted directions, and soon I became disorientated, and panicked.

  Stopping Tempest in a small clearing I looked about me and tried to take stock of the situation. The forest was humming with sound and movement. Buzzards circled overhead, and small birds flitted from bush to bush in the undergrowth. The floor of leaf mould steamed with the closeness of the day, and a veil of mist hung in the canopy. Large boulders watched me from behind the tree trunks like silent giants.

  My heartbeat was slowing at last and my panic was receding. I was lost, but would be able to navigate north and westwards in the way Brother Peter had taught me. With concentration and a calm head I could get back to Somershill before nightfall.

  Relief washed through me. I thought I was safe.

  Then I heard the dogs.

  At first they were distant and perhaps it was just my harried imagination – but soon the noise became louder and clearly discernible. It was the frenzy of barking – high-pitched and bloodthirsty. There could be no doubt about it. De Caburn and his hounds were on my tail. Tempest flicked his ears and tried to rear, since a horse dislikes hunting dogs as much as a fox or a stag, but I kicked his flanks before he had a chance to dislodge me and once again we resumed our gallop through the trees.

  It is a strange thing to be pursued – an experience with which I was unfamiliar. The cellarer once chased me through the monastery for drinking his best port from the bottle, but on that occasion I had only been in line for a beating. Now it seemed I had carelessly placed my own head in a noose.

  I cursed myself for coming here alone. For having the naïvety to take on a man such as de Caburn. I was a poor swordsman and an even poorer horseman, and easy prey to the men and dogs who were somewhere out there. In the dark forest.

  At times I thought I had evaded them, only for the barking to return. And then, in the far distance I could hear their voices. Calling my name, as if I might be simple enough to answer. So I kept riding, until Tempest began to tire. His mouth frothed and white sweat clung to his neck and withers.

  With the barking ever closer I rode up a narrow and steeply sided sandstone gorge in the hope of finding a passage to the next valley. But the path soon petered out in a clearing that was completely surrounded by rocks, and there was no way out other than to retrace my steps. I had trapped myself into a dead end.

  And what a dead end!

  An ancient beech tree grew from the rocks itself, and beneath its curling roots was a deep hole. I didn’t need to look over the rim to see its purpose. I could smell it. It was a pit of the dead. A plague pit. And when I did muster the courage to look into its black depths I saw below me a layered cak
e of bones, clothes and hair. It was hard to tell these people had once been human at all – since the bodies had been disturbed and clawed at by wild animals. And although a rudimentary cross hung by the tree, it wasn’t so much a mass grave as a rubbish heap. The stench made me want to vomit.

  Tempest must have felt my revulsion. Rearing up, he threw me to the forest floor and then bolted back through the gorge. I called after him, but he was gone, and now I was left with only a pile of dead bodies for company – and they could hardly tell me what to do. Cursing loudly I climbed the rocks to try to escape from this confined bowl, but then caught the distant sound of the dogs and the galloping of hooves. Whoever had been on my trail was now following my horse – but it would not take long for them to catch up with Tempest and realise he had ejected his mount. And then they would know I was somewhere nearby, only this time on foot.

  Despair was beginning to take hold of me – but his hands were still loose and slippery about my throat. I was not ready to die.

  Now my mind worked at speed. I could climb a tree or dig a hole and hide in it. Or I could run to water, so the dogs would lose my scent. Except I hadn’t passed a stream on this higher ground, and a hiding place would be easily sniffed out by the nose of a deerhound. As for climbing trees, it was not something in which I excelled.

  And then the most disgusting idea revealed itself to me. I would hide amongst the dead.

  I approached the pit of bodies again and breathed deeply. The noise of the dogs was fading. The air was still as oppressive as a kitchen full of steam and I felt faint. There was no need to do this. I could just run. Even without the speed of a horse, I might still get away.

  The barking stopped. There was silence. But then, almost immediately it started again – except now the desperate, excitable calls were closing in. Soon the dogs would catch my scent and I would be murdered by de Caburn or his ugly friend, only to be left beside the road in the pretence of having been robbed and killed by bandits.