Plague Land Read online

  Cornwall strolled between the benches. ‘There are those among us who would lie to serve their own ends.’ The anticipation in the church began to harden into fear. Were the sinners about to be named? I looked about me and saw prayers being hastily muttered. Chests being crossed. Brother Peter snorted, folded his arms, and deliberately looked out of the window.

  ‘Is it you, Henry?’ An oily-faced boy trembled in his seat. ‘Or is it you, Catherine?’

  An older woman shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Father John. I am a true witness. I pray hourly to the heavenly saints. And I sleep with this lock of the Virgin’s hair in my hand.’ She showed Cornwall a coil of dark-coloured hair, which he inspected like a length of cloth at the market, before dropping it back into her lap. By the contemptuous expression on his face, this relic had not been one of his own sales.

  Moving off again, he raised his voice. ‘There is one among us who has come face to face with the Devil, but denies it. He knows where this Devil lurks, but will not name that place. Should we forgive that sin?’ He loomed over a young girl, who shook in her seat. ‘Should we?’

  The girl didn’t dare to look up and whispered something into her lap.

  ‘That’s correct, Ruth,’ said Cornwall. ‘We should seek the truth, and only then forgive.’ Now he spoke softly. ‘But perhaps also, we should understand why this person refuses to admit he’s seen the Devil.’

  ‘Is he in league with Lucifer?’ said Mary Cadebridge – the woman who had first volunteered to take in Old Ralph.

  ‘A question indeed, good wife,’ said Cornwall, striding back towards the chancel. He turned to face us, raising the folds of his chasuble to resemble a great swan, before roaring as loudly as I have ever heard a person address a congregation. ‘It might explain why he will not lead us to them! Why he repeatedly denies they exist!’

  I went to speak, but Brother Peter held me back. ‘Keep your peace, Oswald. Say nothing.’

  Cornwall dropped his arms and strolled over to me. ‘Sire? Is there a truth you would like to impart?’ His voice was as smooth and deceiving as a spoon of boiling treacle.

  ‘Don’t be provoked,’ whispered Peter. ‘He will use your words against you.’

  My heart thumped so heavily it might be punching its way out of my chest. I had seen the Devil in the forest. It wasn’t a hallucination. I wanted to confess. But before having the chance to say a word, Peter had taken me by the arm and was pushing me towards the door.

  ‘Lord Somershill has seen the dog heads, but denies them,’ said Cornwall, standing in our way. ‘Why doesn’t he answer the charge?’

  ‘Get out of the way,’ said Peter. ‘This boy is your lord.’

  Cornwall raised his wings once more. ‘If the boy won’t answer me, then he must answer to the Lord of us all. The Lord redeemer. The King of Heaven.’

  Peter whispered into my ear, ‘Move. Now!’

  At our last confrontation in this church it had been Cornwall who left in humiliation, but now it was my turn. As I was swept through the door by Peter, I caught sight of Mirabel at last. She smiled at me sadly and then looked to her feet.

  We stumbled out into the bright sunlight and put a good distance between ourselves and St Giles before stopping. Peter was red in the face and breathing heavily. ‘Why does that man feel emboldened to speak to you in such a way, Oswald? He is nothing but a country parson.’

  I slumped down in some long grass. Wearied and defeated. ‘I think it has something to do with the earl.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The earl has taken sides with de Caburn.’

  Peter frowned – the sunlight catching the deep lines across his forehead. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘The earl has written to de Caburn and given his blessing to the wedding. Cornwall knows I’m in a weak position.’ I sighed. ‘Everybody is against me now.’

  Peter sat down beside me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  I laid my head on his shoulder. ‘I thought you would become angry again.’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t. Though you should have told me, Oswald.’

  I picked a blade of grass and pulled my fingers along the stalk to release the seeds. ‘I want to give up the estate, Brother. Let Clemence and de Caburn have it.’

  ‘Don’t be so foolish.’

  ‘But I could go back to the monastery with you. Take my vows and return to the infirmary. It would be easier than this.’

  Peter patted my head. ‘No, Oswald. We will fight them.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Somershill is yours.’

  Chapter Twelve

  I walked to the river alone and watched the heron fishing for trout. A corncrake made its rasping call from a nearby hayfield, as the bees worked tirelessly at the foxgloves and comfrey. What a simple life such creatures lived. There were no lords or villeins. No churches or courts of law. No arranged marriages and bastard children. I considered diving into that river and breathing in its watery air until it turned me into a fish. Then I could swim away and hide for ever under the lily pads.Recognising my bout of self-pity for what it was, I straightened up and made for the house.

  Returning to Somershill, a curious sight awaited me. Brother Peter was saddling up a horse at the same time as Mother was trying to unsaddle the creature. A tug of war was taking place between the two of them, which made me smile for the first time that day. The horse was a tired old pony that we had more or less abandoned to the field.

  Mother saw me and dropped her side of the saddle. ‘Brother Peter is returning to the abbey. You have to stop him.’

  ‘I’m making a short visit, that’s all, my lady,’ said Peter, now tying the strap of the saddle underneath the horse’s flank. The pony, for all of her breed’s supposed placidity, was shying away from Peter. She had been happier eating clover and buttercups in the field.

  ‘Tell him he can’t go,’ said Mother. ‘It’s only a week to Clemence’s wedding. He must be here to conduct the ceremony.’

  Peter patted the pony. ‘I’m sure John of Cornwall will be delighted to perform the ceremony if I’m not back in time.’

  Mother threw up her hands. ‘Father John? No thank you. That man knows as much Latin as this pony.’ It seemed we were not the only ones to have noticed Cornwall’s linguistic shortcomings.

  I turned to Peter. ‘Why are you going to the abbey so suddenly? Have you received a letter from the other brothers?’

  Mother interrupted. ‘He’s free to go after the marriage. But I can’t have the Ayres and Peverils listening to Cornwall’s nonsense. They might think the marriage isn’t legal.’

  ‘I’ll return within the week, I promise. Please stand aside, my lady. So I may mount this beast.’ Peter tried to get a foothold in the stirrup, but missed.

  Mother now stamped her foot. ‘Oswald! You’re the lord here. Do something.’

  If only I had a silver coin for each reminder of my duties, I would buy a cog ship and sail to the land of Amazon. I took the reins of the pony, noting Peter’s breath was more pungent than usual – which would explain his difficulty in getting into the saddle.

  ‘Let me speak with Brother Peter alone,’ I told Mother. ‘I’m sure we can solve this problem.’ Mother looked at me guardedly for a moment. ‘I’ll do my best to convince him to stay.’ With a show of reluctance, she wandered back to the house.

  When we were certain Mother was out of earshot, Peter drew me closer.‘I’m going to see the bishop. Not the abbot.’

  ‘In Rochester?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to ask him to find Cornwall a richer parish.’

  ‘Where?’

  Peter threw up his hands. ‘What do I care? All I know is we can’t allow Cornwall to remain here. Not after what happened in church this morning.’

  ‘I could remove him myself, Brother. The lord appoints the parish priest.’

  ‘That’s true, Oswald. But now Cornw
all has the protection of the earl, you might find it a little difficult. We are better to tempt him away to a more lucrative church.’

  ‘But you can’t just saunter in and make demands of the bishop.’

  Peter coughed. ‘The man is in my debt. And don’t ask me why, because I won’t tell you.’

  ‘You really think this will work?’

  ‘Yes, Oswald. Have faith.’

  I helped Peter onto his mount and placed his saddlebags over the pony’s rump. The bags were heavy and made a chinking sound as I moved them. ‘I see you’re taking some provisions.’

  Peter reddened a little. ‘The bishop isn’t generous with his cellar. Also, I may need to get past a few men in order to speak with him.’ He patted the bag. ‘It’s always useful to have something to bargain with.’ He leant down from his pony and motioned for me to draw close. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he said, ‘Promise me something, Oswald. It’s very important.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Stay away from Cornwall while I’m gone. And if he insists on confronting you about the dog heads, say nothing.’

  ‘But Brother Peter—’

  ‘Just do as I say, for once.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘Please, Oswald.’ I nodded grudgingly and he moved away.

  And then an idea suddenly struck me and I chased after him across the meadow. ‘Brother Peter. Would you ask the bishop about the beads?’

  He pulled the pony to a stop. ‘Which beads?’

  ‘The ones I found under Matilda’s bed. You were going to show them to Brother Thomas. Remember?’

  He screwed up his nose. ‘But why would I show a handful of loose beads to the bishop?’

  ‘Because you said they were likely to belong to such a man.’

  Peter pulled a face. ‘You want me to ask the bishop if he owns some jewellery that was found under the bed of a murdered girl?’ Now he laughed. ‘I fear we would not find him too cooperative after such a question.’

  ‘I’ll have them back then,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You do still have the beads?’

  He patted his belt pouch. ‘Yes. Of course I do. But—’

  I held out my hand. ‘Thank you, Brother.’

  Peter hesitated, then opened the pouch and let the beads fall into my palm like a cascade of tiny haw berries. I closed my hand about them tightly, in case he asked for them back.

  Peter turned the pony and trotted away across the meadow. Reaching the gate, he called back to me, ‘Tell your mother I’ll return towards the end of the week.’

  I watched him leave, seeing his image become smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely between the trees. And then, for all the times he had annoyed me, I suddenly missed him.

  The week wore on, but it did not bring Peter back to us. The longer he was missing, the more Mother and Clemence blamed me for his continued absence. As if I had deliberately set out to ruin the wedding by denying them a qualified priest.

  When the Peverils and Ayres began to arrive, Mother panicked that Brother Peter would never return. She then called upon Cornwall and demanded he learn the Latin marriage service by heart. There were rumours that the earl himself would attend the ceremony, so she did not want to be made a laughing stock by the inadequacies of our parish priest.

  With my sister’s wedding looming, the house was filled with clamour and cooking, stirred together with bad temper and tears. As a result I kept to myself as much as possible.

  De Caburn was yet to make an appearance, and Clemence felt his absence keenly. She excused him with fibs and stories, but it was a slight even Clemence did not deserve. Not that anybody could criticise de Caburn in front of my sister. When Mother joked that her husband-to-be seemed so disinterested in the wedding, he might as well send one of his servants to say the vows at the church, Clemence almost stabbed Mother with a tapestry needle.

  Clemence should have been blossoming as the wedding approached, but unfortunately the unpleasant atmosphere in the house reflected itself across my sister’s face. The creases around her mouth had deepened, and her teeth seemed permanently clenched.

  At least there happened to be one person, other than myself of course, who was content with the absence of de Caburn. I heard Humbert asking Ada if Clemence would really go ahead with the marriage – his tone childishly hopeful that she would not. Ada laughed at the boy’s question and warned him to find a new mistress, since there was no chance he would follow Clemence to Versey Castle. Everybody knew de Caburn kept as few house servants as a common wool merchant. Humbert sloped away into a corner at these words, where he hid as dolefully as an injured animal.

  Humbert had done well to find a quiet place in such a full house. I tried to read my Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas in the chapel, but was constantly interrupted by a small boy from the Ayres family, who wanted me to practise archery with him, or play hide and seek.

  The Ayres were at least tolerable guests.

  Not so the Peverils. They were my mother’s family from Winchester, and liked to mention with predictable regularity that they were descended from William of Normandy. They rode into Somershill with an entourage of servants, and took my bedchamber, although they had not been offered this room. When I expressed my surprise at their number, Mother informed me the Peverils had survived the Plague by isolating themselves in the family castle with a year’s worth of provisions and an armed guard at the door.

  At our first family feast, a pallid young girl called Geraldine was made to stay sitting next to me at dinner, as one by one everybody else left. She was one of the Peveril party and about as good company as a hermit crab. When I also tried to leave, my exit from the hall was blocked by Mother, who more or less ordered me to resume my place at the table and make conversation with the girl.

  I sat back down a little further away than before and attempted to do as instructed. As Gilbert and two of the newly hired servants from the village cleared the plates, I asked Geraldine’s opinion on such subjects as the trajectory of Venus or the writings of Pope Pius. But she seemed to hold no opinions on these matters whatsoever. In fact, it was difficult to get her to say anything at all, such was her air of apathy and dejection.

  After a few more attempts to converse, only to be answered by sullen mumbles and shrugs, I changed my line of attack and demanded to know if she knew the reason for us being so obviously left alone. My sudden firmness woke her from her stupor and I soon discovered she was my second cousin, aged thirteen, and that we were betrothed. By her demeanour she was as unimpressed with this arrangement as I.

  When I looked up to see Mother spying at us from the squint in the solar, I beckoned for her to join me in the great hall. Before Mother descended, I suggested Geraldine take a walk to the stables and look at the horses, which she did without a fragment of enthusiasm or energy.

  When Mother appeared, I dragged her to the cellar – which was the one place in the house we could be sure of being alone. Once Mother had found a seat on a barrel, I closed the door. ‘Have you organised a marriage between me and this girl?’ I asked.

  Mother played with the wire of her crespine nervously as the rush light threw shadows across her sallow skin. ‘Don’t you like her?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘She’s a little pale, I’ll grant. But that’s because she’s bleeding. I’ve seen her rags.’ She seemed not to notice the look of disgust on my face. ‘I’m sure by Sunday she will have assumed a rosier tone.’

  ‘Have you organised a marriage?’ I said. ‘Yes or no?’

  She took my hand. ‘It’s a good match, Oswald. The girl is a Peveril. Directly from William himself.’

  ‘From his bastard son, you mean.’

  ‘What does that matter? William Peveril was still the son of a king. The line is good.’

  I pulled my hand away. ‘I don’t want to marry that girl. Now please reverse the arrangement.’

  She stood up and crossed her arms. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

&nb
sp; ‘I don’t like her.’

  Mother puffed. ‘She isn’t the most handsome of girls, but she’ll get better with age. As I’ve always told you, Oswald, don’t judge a girl too soon. A pretty foal will make an ugly mare.’

  ‘I didn’t mean Geraldine’s appearance. I tried to converse with her, but I might as well have been talking to the wall.’

  ‘What did you ask her about?’ Then she rolled her eyes. ‘Not the writings of Pope Pius, I hope?’

  ‘She wasn’t interested in anything I like.’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Waving a finger in my face, she spoke sharply. ‘Your only responsibility is to father children, Oswald. Whether you bother to speak to the girl is beside the point.’

  ‘It’s not beside the point to me. It’s important she should share my interests.’

  Now she flung her hands up, as if in despair. ‘Interests? Share your interests with Brother Peter. Or even your friends at the tavern. All you need to share with your wife is your seed.’

  I groaned again. ‘Why do you say such things, Mother? It’s revolting.’

  This almost seemed to please her. ‘Let’s drink a little of the wine Brother Peter hides away in here,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s behind the ale barrel. Unless he took it with him.’

  She found the bottle and poured me a cup. ‘You should marry the girl, Oswald. You’ll need sons.’

  I quickly downed some wine to ease the pain of this conversation. ‘I can marry when I’m older.’ I passed her the cup, but she waved it away.

  ‘No. You need to get on with it. You could die at any moment.’

  ‘That’s encouraging. Thank you, Mother.’

  ‘The girl won’t last beyond a first child. She doesn’t look as if she could spit out a walnut from those hips. But, at least if the boy survives, you’ll have an heir.’

  I took a second gulp from the cup. ‘More words of encouragement?’ The wine was taking immediate effect. ‘You’re such a beacon of hope.’