Plague Land Page 13

  His face darkened and I even would say he growled. ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I told you. I saw nothing!’

  The day had been arduous and the sheepskin was soft. I watched Leofwin secretly for a while. He had positioned himself with his back against the wall, sitting near to the fire in order to replenish it with wood when necessary. As he pulled his long tunic he rubbed an abscess on his leg, which was red and swollen and crusted by a scab the size of a beech leaf. Leofwin dabbed it with some ashes from the fire, but this would not cure the infection. When he caught me watching, he pulled down his tunic and turned away, telling me crossly to mind my own business.

  It was my intention to stay awake, but my heavy eyes soon betrayed me and I fell into a restless slumber, dreaming of the shadowy creatures by the pit. At first light, I woke to find Leofwin treading down the last of the flames.

  He scraped back the hair from his face with his awkward fingers. ‘I can use a knife and shoot an arrow,’ he said without looking up from the sooty embers. ‘I don’t need your pity.’

  ‘I don’t pity you,’ I lied. ‘But the abscess on your leg needs draining.’

  He stumbled forward and thrust his strange face into mine. ‘It’s not some plague bubo. I know how to drain a boil.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t have my own devoted monk to nurse me, my lord. I treat myself.’

  I ignored his sarcasm. ‘How many times have you drained it?’

  ‘Many times.’ He backed away from me a little and dropped his hostility for a moment. ‘But it won’t heal.’

  ‘Then some contamination must remain lodged under the skin. A small object you haven’t removed.’

  ‘What would you know about such things?’ The words rolled off his tongue contemptuously.

  ‘I was apprentice to an infirmarer. Remember?’

  He scrutinised me for a few seconds and then slowly lifted his long tunic to present the abscess on the shin of his left leg. Perhaps he expected me to recoil from the red and swollen boil, as he had recoiled from the description of my plague sores? But I did not, even though his abscess smelt unpleasant and was oozing a thin trail of pus. His leg was hot to the touch, and when I pressed my finger into his skin he flinched.

  ‘Do you have a sharp knife?’ I asked him. ‘If it is silver, all the better.’

  He dropped his tunic again and walked away from me distrustfully.

  ‘Leave it then,’ I said. ‘Wait for the corruption to spread into your bones and your blood. Nobody but the crows and flies will know you’ve died.’

  He stopped, though he did not turn to look at me. Instead he shuffled about at the back of the cave and appeared to be searching for something under blankets or behind stones. When I realised he was looking for a knife, I also asked him to bring me some vinegar and honey.

  ‘I don’t have honey,’ he said.

  ‘Lard will do. And I need some linen. And garlic.’

  He soon returned, clasping the items I had asked for. The knife was a whittle tang with a blade of silver and a handle of horn. I didn’t ask how he had acquired such an expensive blade but he read my thoughts.

  ‘I found it,’ he said.

  ‘And the leaf lard? It’s from a sheep’s kidney, isn’t it?’ Once again he was reluctant to answer me. ‘Did you poach it?’

  ‘The animal was nearly dead already.’

  I placed the knife in the embers of the fire to warm it a little, while I washed down his abscess with some linen and vinegar. ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘I was shot in the leg. I thought I had removed all of the arrowhead.’ His face grimaced as the acid of the vinegar stung at his skin.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘In the spring.’

  ‘Did you see who shot you?’

  He looked away. ‘No.’

  ‘Was it de Caburn?’ He was silent. ‘Did he catch you taking his sheep?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  I took the knife from the fire and blew the ashes from the blade. ‘Do you have something to dull the pain? Brandy perhaps?’

  He puffed out his cheeks and tried to laugh. ‘Brandy? Who do you think I am? A Dutch merchant?’

  ‘I thought you might have found some.’

  He pulled a face at my words. ‘Get on with it.’

  I had perforated an abscess before, though usually under the supervision of Brother Peter. At the infirmary we had lancets to pierce the crust of the boil, and glass cups to draw the poison. We dressed the cavity with poultices of lavender and rosemary oil, and then we sprinkled the wound with dried yarrow to stem the flow of blood. But none of these herbs was available to me, so it was fortunate Leofwin was a brave and stoic patient.

  I opened the sinus hole of the boil and allowed the pus to drain more freely until I could scrape away the dead matter, soon finding the small shard of arrow that lay embedded deep within his skin. He only screamed when I washed out the wound with vinegar, but the paste of lard and garlic formed a cooling ointment, and the intensity of his pain seemed to diminish. I could only hope the wound would heal, since I could not stitch it.

  Leofwin then slept, but woke in a delirium. His fever was high. I left the cave when it was safe and found some willow bark for him to chew upon. His teeth were healthy enough, if not exactly in the conventional position in his jaw. He did as I bade him and slowly the fever broke.

  While he was exhausted and bewildered I tried to converse with him. To find out where he came from and who cared for him. Who was the person who brought him flour, dried peas and sausage – all of which I found in a small alcove carved into the wall? He knew of Dutch merchants and of nursery rhymes and the Bible, so something of the outside world reached this lonely hermit hole.

  Mostly I tried to draw him on the creatures that had surrounded me by the plague pit. He knew what they were, though he persistently denied it. I had previously given Cornwall’s theory no credence, but during those lonely hours in this strange and damp cave, I began to wonder if I had been right to dismiss him so readily. Something lurked outside in the shadows and I made sure to keep a fire burning. Even in the daylight.

  My schemes to coax information from Leofwin failed until, just as I was about to quit, he began to mumble a few words. I wiped his brow and spoke softly. ‘Which beasts do you speak of, Leofwin?’

  His face was hot and sweating. ‘They will not find you. Nobody will hunt you. I will keep your secret.’

  ‘What secret?’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Tell me.’ But he would say no more, and drifted back into a restless sleep. And nothing else I said to him would induce an answer.

  As Leofwin slowly recovered I had only myself for company, apart from the bats who roosted inside the cave, and the large eagles who liked to dive at my head every time I ventured out. At night I felt something watching me from the ledge outside. It felt sinister and menacing, and sometimes scuffled and scratched at the rock. I built the fire up to a blaze and did not sleep until daybreak.

  On the second morning Leofwin sat up and asked for something to eat. His wound smelt clean and the skin on his leg had returned to a wholesome colour. I was unable to offer him anything but a thin pottage made with dried peas. I did not possess the boy’s skills to survive in this forest, and after three days I was starving.

  ‘Does your gown smell any better?’ he said, pointing to my tunic, which was still hanging on a boulder near the fire.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Put it on and we’ll leave.’

  ‘Are you well enough?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was pleased to be going, since Brother Peter would have search parties out for me by now. I put on my tunic, but it was still seasoned with the scent of decaying flesh – only now it was also tinged with the odour of bonfire. I considered being rid of the garment for ever, except I could hardly return to my estate in just my underclothes.

  After finishing the remains of the pottage, we set off,
but not before Leofwin insisted on blindfolding me. I tried to argue against this, but he was insistent. If I refused, he would simply drop me off in the nearest clearing and be gone, in spite of my success in treating his leg.

  Before I let him tie the length of linen over my eyes, I tried one last time to ask him a question.

  ‘Why did you help me, Leofwin?’

  He considered this question at least. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ I told him.

  ‘So am I.’ I hid my surprise, since I had assumed him to be only about twelve or thirteen. ‘We deserve some more life, don’t we?’ he added wistfully, and that was all he would say.

  We walked for maybe four or five hours. It was hard to keep track of time, but I was aware, despite the blindfold, that we were sometimes walking in circles. No doubt a deliberate ploy to disorientate me, so that I would never find my way back. We talked occasionally, but only for Leofwin to tell me we were about to cross a stream, or climb over a fallen tree trunk. I could scarcely have retraced my steps, but made a note of the sounds and smells of our route. The buzzing of the horseflies. The lemony scent of the last of the elderflowers, and the ugly stink of the first of the hogweed. The pull of the deep, sticky mud we encountered at every descent.

  The day was becoming warmer and warmer, and Leofwin had no food or clean water with him. My stomach rumbled like a grinding millstone and I felt a headache brewing – the type that bores a hole into the back of an eye and disturbs vision.

  Eventually we reached a point when we walked no further. My headache was intense by now and I felt sick.

  And then, suddenly, I realised I was alone.

  ‘Leofwin? Where are you? What’s happening?’ I called his name, but there was no response. Deciding to pull off the blindfold, the sun burnt my eyes and I could hardly focus. I panicked. ‘Leofwin!’ I shouted. By now I was dizzy and nauseous, and fell to my knees thinking I might vomit. Then somebody took my arm. ‘Leofwin? Is that you?’ I said.

  Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I discovered it was not Leofwin’s face looking down at me. It was my servant’s – Gilbert. Brother Peter and some other men were peering over his shoulder.

  ‘Who’s Leofwin?’ said Gilbert.

  ‘He’s a boy,’ I said. Then realising I had already broken my promise, I quickly retracted. ‘I don’t know who he is. I’m dreaming.’

  Gilbert turned to Peter. ‘He’s not making sense, Brother.’

  Peter took my hand. ‘We’ve been searching for you for days, Oswald. Did de Caburn do this to you?’

  ‘No, I ran away from him and hid in a plague pit.’

  Gilbert and the other men looked at each other uneasily. Peter noticed their disquiet. ‘Lord Somershill is feverish. Pay no heed to his words.’

  ‘He smells like the Devil,’ said one of the younger men, who was now fanning his nose with a hand.

  ‘Be quiet, boy! And bring the cart.’ Peter watched them disperse and then bent down to whisper in my ear. ‘Say nothing more, Oswald. We will talk later.’

  As I lay in the cart, holding my head and wanting to be sick again, I glanced down at my right hand. My father’s signet ring was still there on my third finger, but my silver ring was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Once returned by the men to Somershill, I spent many hours in my bedchamber with a cold compress held to my head. I had suffered such headaches when younger, but they had never lasted this long. Mother had appointed herself my nurse, but was more concerned with interrogating me about my absence than she was with my health. Unfortunately it seemed my story was now the talk of the estate. At times I feigned sleep in the hope Mother would go away.

  I must have dozed off, for the next thing Brother Peter was pinching my cheek to wake me. ‘We must talk quickly, Oswald. Your mother and Clemence have ridden to the village.’ I groaned, sensing a new round of questioning.

  ‘I need to know exactly what happened to you,’ he said.

  ‘I told you earlier, Brother. When we were first alone. I was helped by a boy. His name was—’

  Peter rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, yes. Leofwin. A disfigured outcast who lives in a cave. On a ridge full of eagles.’ He now applied a new compress to my temple. It was cold and smelt of spearmint and lemons. And it stung.

  ‘It’s true,’ I insisted, but he ignored my assertion.

  ‘You realise Cornwall has raised the hue and cry again?’

  I pushed the compress away. ‘Has there been another murder?’

  ‘No. Of course not, Oswald. But you disappeared for four days. Cornwall has convinced everybody you were taken by dog heads.’

  I wanted then to tell Peter of my strange encounter by the plague pit, but before I could speak, he started again. ‘Of course, you’ve only made it worse. Saying the oddest things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  Peter pulled at the mole on his neck. ‘Some delirious nonsense about strange forms in the dark.’ He sighed. ‘You said they had the heads of dogs. You can only imagine the effect of such words.’

  ‘You see, there—’

  He held up his hand. ‘Please, Oswald. I only want to know what happened with de Caburn. No more foolishness.’

  I quickly put the compress back onto my head. ‘I told you everything earlier, Brother.’

  ‘But you weren’t making sense.’

  ‘The plan to stop Clemence’s marriage failed. What more is there to say?’

  Hooves clattered in the yard below.

  Peter looked out of the window and cursed. ‘Bones of St Helena! It’s your mother and sister. And they have that rogue Cornwall with them.’ He took a small glass bottle from his belt pouch and swigged from it. ‘He must be here to visit you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see Cornwall.’

  ‘Pull up the sheets. I’ll tell them you’re too weak to receive visitors.’

  I lay down under the blankets as Peter went to intercept my mother’s party on the stairs. But he was too late, for moments later Cornwall strode into my bedchamber with all the swagger of an earl. As he leant over my bed, I noted his neck was draped with heavy chains and his velvet cap was new. It seemed the sale of his relics had been boosted by my disappearance in the forest.

  Cornwall bowed, though not quite as deeply as he should have. ‘Lord Somershill.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘What is it, Cornwall? I’m unwell.’

  Mother bustled in behind him. ‘See how Oswald has suffered piteously, Father John. You must pray for him.’ She busied herself about my head, rearranging the linen of the compress so that it hung over my face like a woman’s veil. I peeked through to see my sister Clemence now leaning against the oak of the door, with a smile fixed across her face.

  ‘I will say a mass for Lord Somershill,’ said Cornwall, ‘to ensure he has not been tainted by his encounter with the Devil.’

  I mumbled. ‘How much will that cost?’

  He pursed his lips again. ‘It would be my honour and duty, my lord.’

  Peter pulled back the veil and held his hand to my forehead. ‘Lord Somershill didn’t encounter the Devil. So there is no need to say a mass.’

  ‘Then what happened to him?’

  ‘He was bucked from his horse when returning from Versey Castle. See how pale his countenance is.’

  Cornwall crossed his arms. ‘But I’m told he has been mumbling in his sleep. Saying he was confronted by creatures with the heads of dogs.’

  ‘Lord Somershill has simply been delirious. He had an injury to the head and nothing to eat for three days. A person may say many strange and fantastical things when in a state of senselessness. I have studied the mind under such conditions.’

  Cornwall smirked. ‘Yes. I have heard you’re an expert on the state of senselessness.’

  Clemence let out a guffaw, which Mother silenced with a stare.

  I now opened my eyes fully, though the light in the room was strong and it was necessary to squint. ‘Brother Peter is correc
t. I became disorientated after hitting my head against a rock.’ I pulled the compress back over my eyes. ‘Now please leave. I may be sick.’

  Mother leant her face into mine. ‘Are you quite sure, Oswald? There was no mention of hitting your head before?’

  ‘I didn’t want to alarm you, Mother. I know how easily your humours are disturbed.’

  ‘Perhaps Father John could say some prayers for you?’ she whispered.

  ‘No! Not even a Hail Mary.’

  ‘But Oswald—’

  I drew Mother closer. ‘Do not give that man a single penny. Understand?’ These words were meant for her ears alone, but it was clear Cornwall caught them. He drew a deep breath and swung the corner of his cloak over his shoulder.

  Mother sensed the slight and tried to make amends by taking Cornwall’s arm. ‘My son is still unwell, Father John. His nerves have been quite unhinged by this whole episode. Please, join me in the great hall.’ She led him to the door. ‘I have some sweet port you may like to try. Its heat is said to warm even the blackest of bile.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’ His voice receded as they walked through the solar and then descended the staircase. ‘But one mass may not be sufficient. I’m told Lord Somershill smelt of the abyss when they found him. I fear I may need to say at least four.’

  I lifted the compress from my eyes completely to see Clemence had remained in the room. ‘What excellent comedy,’ she said. ‘I could be watching a company of fools at the fair.’

  ‘Your brother needs to rest, my lady,’ said Brother Peter, pulling the curtains about my bed and releasing a bloom of dust.

  Instead I sat up and pushed back the heavy damask. ‘I need to speak to you, Clemence.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘What about?’

  Her demeanour was hostile, but I persevered nonetheless. ‘De Caburn tried to kill me.’

  Now she laughed. ‘What a fanciful notion.’

  ‘He chased me through the forest with his dogs.’

  ‘He was looking for you. You fool.’

  ‘He was trying to kill me.’