Plague Land Read online

  ‘You’re not a child any more, Oswald. I want the estate to succeed to a de Lacy. Not a de Caburn. Do you understand me?’

  I stared at her blankly.

  She poked a finger into my arm. ‘If you don’t hurry up and produce a child, then de Caburn or one of his offspring will have this place.’

  I snorted. ‘At least it would be Clemence’s child. She’s a de Lacy.’

  Mother huffed and waved her hand at me. ‘Clemence won’t bear de Caburn a child. She’s too old.’

  ‘She’s only twenty-six. You gave birth to me at forty.’

  ‘But my bleeding was regular, Oswald. Clemence is like the river Guise. She either floods or dries out. It’s no good for planting a seed.’

  This conversation was nauseating, drunk or not. I stood up to leave, inventing some task that needed doing. ‘I must inspect the plough heads with Featherby. I promised him earlier.’

  ‘Why? You won’t be ploughing again for months.’

  ‘Featherby must be confused,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I doubt it. He was your father’s reeve for years. But I find he stands too close, don’t you? I can smell the fumes from his stomach.’

  ‘I must go, Mother.’

  ‘Will you at least consider marrying Geraldine?’

  ‘No.’

  I slept badly again that night, but my dream was different this time. I was not lying in that filthy cottage waiting for Peter to lance my skin. Instead I dreamt of the marriage that Mother proposed.

  It was the night of my wedding. Geraldine called me to bed, where she lay naked upon sheets stained in blood. I wanted to run away but she bade me kiss her, as Mother and Lady Peveril watched us through the squint. Her body was as scrawny and bony as a street donkey’s, and though I resolved to do my duty, she smelt unpleasant and sickly, like the marzipan sweets I had once been given by an Italian merchant. As Geraldine opened her thin, broomstick legs, a host of small silver snakes slipped out from within her and slithered across the sheets towards me, their tongues flicking and their heads flexing from left to right.

  Waking from this horror I sat bolt upright, not recognising the room about me. Then the moon crept out from behind a cloud and shone through the window to illuminate the ladies bedchamber where I had recently been forced to sleep with Mother and Clemence.

  Mother nudged me and smiled. ‘You called Geraldine’s name, Oswald. Were you dreaming of her?’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  She nudged me again and I heard Hector growl. Evidently we were disturbing the dog’s sleep. ‘Are you sure, Oswald? It sounded pleasant.’

  ‘It was a nightmare. And no. I will not marry her.’ I pulled the sheets over my head and turned my back.

  Having considered my decision on this marriage arrangement to be unequivocal, the next day I was astounded to overhear Mother scheming with Lady Peveril. Their plan was crude and disagreeable, and involved a hunting party organised solely with the intention of abandoning Geraldine and myself in the forest with only a flagon of wine for company. The thought of such an unpleasant outing was enough to provoke a quick escape from the house and a day in hiding.

  I kept to the edge of the fields and near to the woods at a good distance from the house, in case Gilbert or any of the other servants caught sight of me. When I heard my name being called, I disappeared further into the trees. I even thought to visit Alison’s grave, but the church was too busy with preparations for the wedding and I would surely be discovered. But there was one place where nobody would find me. The deserted Starvecrow cottage.

  As my feet found their way to the small valley where Alison and Matilda’s home was situated, I decided to take another look about the cottage with the vague idea of seeking out some evidence that I might have missed on previous occasions. The sky had clouded over and a silver rinse seemed to have washed the colour from the world. Once again I had the impression of being watched, but dismissed the feeling. My mind was tired. I hadn’t slept properly for days, and perhaps I was even in danger of suffering another bout of hallucinations.

  The grass and nettles around the cottage had grown even higher, and the fallen apple tree was now diverting the stream across the vegetable patch as well as through the hog hole. Managing to stay upright, I descended the steep bank to the cottage. My descent was made easier because the long grass appeared freshly trodden.

  Once reaching my destination, I found the cottage to be as pitiful as before, hiding away in this lonely hollow, like a dog waiting to die. Wedging the door open I ventured inside, but the place felt different. The wooden bench had been removed, which was only to be expected I suppose, since a neighbour had probably taken a liking to it. But it was more than that. The cottage felt somehow occupied.

  I pushed around in the wood ash of the fire pit with my foot, and something immediately roused my suspicions. Kneeling down, I felt the embers with my hands. They were warm.

  And then, behind me, the door slammed and I jumped – for I had made sure to fix it open. It was now dark and eerie in the windowless cottage, so I went briskly to re-open the door and shed some light back into the room, only to find it was stuck fast. I pushed with all my strength, but the wood would only budge a little, and not nearly enough for me to squeeze out through the gap.

  Then, hearing the rustling of legs through the long grass outside, I kicked at the wood ferociously until it gave way. Now free, I could see somebody had jammed a forked branch against the door in order to keep me trapped inside.

  I ran up the bank to follow the footsteps and soon found myself enclosed by woodland. The smooth grey trunks of beech trees surrounded me like the stone pillars in the crypt of Rochester Cathedral, enveloping the silence into a circle of soft and heavy air. In the distance a woodpecker drummed against a tree.

  I called out. ‘Who’s there? Is it you?’ But nobody answered. ‘Come out! Show yourself!’ But nothing happened.

  It was a lost opportunity, and as I dragged my feet back towards the cottage, I cursed myself for not catching up with my assailant. Then, as I looked to the ground with some dejection, I noticed the footprints in the damp mud. They were only lightly trodden into the soil, but were freshly made and could only have been made by the person I had been pursuing. Who else would come to this lonely and damp spot?

  The footprints led me further into the wood, ending in a basin where they circled and ended. A small stream cut through this shaded dell, but its waters were muddy and shallow and of little use to anybody, when cleaner water could be found nearer to the village. There seemed no reason why a person would come here. I looked about the dell, catching my face in the silk threads of a spider’s web. Pulling the sticky gauze from my hair, I noticed an area of disturbed soil beneath the holly.

  It was a rectangle of earth. Just the size of a young girl’s grave.

  I knelt down and put my ear to the soil as if the clay might give up its secrets, but could only hear the beating of my own heart in my ears – thumping in anticipation of my next task.

  I had no choice.

  I pulled at the soil with my bare hands, though the clay was sticky and cold. After excavating a small hole to the depth of a foot I found nothing, and it had taken me nearly an hour. The earth was still recently disturbed, so I knew the hole went deeper, but a spade was needed to finish this appalling job.

  And then I felt something upon my neck. A breath. I turned. Shadows danced between the trees. Eyes watched me.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called again, but once again nobody answered. A twig snapped. Light flickered. Leaves rustled. A cold breeze brushed against my skin.

  I was terrified. I picked up a heavy stick and rushed into the undergrowth, hoping to flush out this demon – only to disturb a squawking blackbird and its dull-brown mate. They had been looking for worms in the leaf cover. I put a hand to my neck again and discovered the ghostly breath had been nothing more than the tickle of a spider.

  I dropped her leggy body to the ground and might even have laughed,
except this was hardly funny.

  I returned to Somershill and sought out Gilbert.

  I found my servant in the kitchen – no more pleased to see me than he might have been to find a wasp in the honey jar. Clemence’s wedding was taking place the next morning, and Gilbert was now busy skinning rabbits and cleaning the spits. His fingernails were black. I whispered to him through the kitchen window and kept my voice low, not wanting to alert Mother to my presence, as she was said to be furious with me following my disappearance.

  Gilbert made a show of resentment at being pulled away from his many tasks in the kitchen, so I thought about asking Piers instead. But this was not a job for a stableboy. I needed a man with Gilbert’s strength and Gilbert’s stomach. Reluctantly the burly servant fetched two spades and followed me back to the wooded glade, though he muttered the whole way about being on a fool’s errand.

  We dug for a further hour to the accompaniment of Gilbert’s complaints that we would find nothing more than a dead dog or a rusty kettle at the bottom of this hole.

  I wish he had been right.

  The first part of her body to be exposed was the blackened skin of a small and decaying foot. The flesh was bloated and already slipping away from the bone. Gilbert crossed himself and was unwilling to continue unless we called upon Father John to join us – but Cornwall was the last person I wanted at this exhumation. The body was clothed in a simple woollen gown and immediately the scent of her corpse attracted flies. She had been dead for maybe three weeks, given the progress of the putrefaction.

  A surge of nausea rose through my stomach as I waved the bluebottles away. ‘Let’s quickly unearth her face and we can be certain of her identity.’

  ‘But surely it’s the Starvecrow girl, isn’t it, sire?’

  I sighed. ‘I expect so.’

  We removed the soil from her chest and arms until we reached her upper body. Her neck was gored and mutilated, but as we dug further into the grave, we found no head attached to it. It seemed it had been removed completely.

  I let out a groan and this time could not prevent myself from emptying the contents of my stomach into a nearby bush. Gilbert crossed his chest and fell to his knees. ‘Jesus Christ. The creatures have eaten her head.’

  ‘Be quiet, Gilbert.’

  ‘Where is it then, sire?’

  I splashed some water from the stream onto my own face and swilled a handful about my mouth to remove the taste of bile. I then held my nose and looked down into the grave at this wretched sight. A bloated and rotting body with a mutilated stump instead of a head. ‘Is that you, Matilda?’ I whispered.

  Gilbert struggled back to his feet. ‘What should we do now, sire?’

  ‘Cover her back with soil.’

  Gilbert frowned. ‘But she should be buried in the churchyard. Head or not.’

  ‘Of course. But I want to leave her here for a little while longer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘But sire?’ His face was now furrowed.

  I hesitated to tell him the truth, but Gilbert was not a simple man. He should not have been shocked by my answer. ‘I want Brother Peter to examine her body before she is properly laid to rest. There may be some information to be gathered from her corpse.’ I put my hand upon his muscular arm. ‘You must keep this quiet. Do you understand?’

  Gilbert crossed himself. ‘It seems ungodly to me.’

  ‘Please.’ He still did not look convinced. ‘Think of the distress this would cause before the wedding, Gilbert. Let’s at least wait until Clemence is married.’

  He sighed. ‘As you like, sire.’ Then he muttered under his breath, ‘God forgive us.’

  That night I sneaked back to the graveyard to tell Alison that our sister was found. It was still and quiet as I whispered into the soil.

  Did I hear her sigh?

  Or was it just the slither of a snake in the long grass?

  Chapter Thirteen

  If the eve of Clemence’s wedding was marred by the discovery of a murdered girl, then the morning of the day itself was no more auspicious. The rain, which had kept away for a week, arrived in a fierce deluge, with so strong a downpour that a loose tile gave way on the roof of the great hall, causing water to fall onto the fire.

  Mother insisted Gilbert climb up and replace the tile despite the heaviness of the rainstorm. He scrambled across the roof cursing and blaspheming, while the Peverils sat below on a bench, looking as disgusted as a row of Mother Superiors. Had they never heard the coarse language of a servant before? Mother assured me their sneers were testimony to the nobility of their French blood, and reminded me of this breeding were I to marry into the family. But one look at Geraldine’s conceited face was enough to convince me I would never take this girl as my wife. No matter how superior her family claimed to be.

  After the tile was replaced, Mother retired to the solar to soothe my sister’s brain by combing her hair. Clemence was said to be suffering from a headache, but given the screams and scolding that could then be heard about the house, it was evident Mother’s treatment was neither gratefully received, nor working. The rest of us waited in the great hall, uneasy and embarrassed.

  To avoid conversing with my aunt Hillary, a woman who liked to grill me in Latin gerunds, I made for the kitchen to watch Gilbert preparing for the wedding feast. The smell of wheat bread slipped out from the ovens and filled the room with a warm sweet aroma, which put me in mind of previous feasts held in the great hall – particularly the lavish banquets given by my father. They had been great celebrations of our family’s status and wealth. The tables spread with spiced meats, peaches and pears, cakes decorated in elaborate sugar creations, cheeses from every corner of England, and wines from France and Italy. Now the most exotic offering to our guests was white bread.

  I might have wanted to hide away in the kitchen, but I was not welcome there. Not only was my presence distracting for the servants, but Gilbert had not forgiven me regarding the grave in the forest. He threw me hostile glances and crossed himself repeatedly until I left the chamber and went instead to wait by the gatehouse, in the hope that Brother Peter would miraculously return in time for the wedding.

  The shadow of the headless body hung over me like a pall, and it was impossible to uphold the pretence of joy at Clemence’s union that Mother had firmly instructed me to maintain. My previous night’s sleep had once again been disturbed by the same nightmare. The filthy cottage. The knife at my skin. The rosary over my face. I wished Peter would return. I was tired and frightened and felt bereft without him.

  De Caburn finally made an appearance at Somershill around noon, though he had been drinking heavily and had not changed his tunic for a clean over-kirtle, despite this being his wedding day. At the arrival of his noisy party, I slipped into the cellar to avoid seeing him and his unpleasant friends – one of whom was certainly the man with the battle-scarred skin. I did not see his face, but knew him to be the same person – since the low boom of his voice rattled the bottles on the cellar shelves.

  De Caburn and his entourage did not stay long at the manor, as Mother soon shooed them away to the village with warnings of the bad luck they would bring upon the marriage should they see the bride before the ceremony.

  I am told they gladly left and went straight to the village tavern.

  When absolutely certain they were gone, I wandered into the garden. The rain had ceased for a while, although the sky was still as grey as a muddy puddle. And then, on an impulse, I picked some roses for Clemence from the Damask bush – an old rose that grew against the warm wall of the chapel. Mother said it came from Persia and had been sold to my grandfather by a crusader, who swapped it for enough money to buy a new pair of shoes. Each year we thought the rare and precious rose might die, but then its ancient fist of wood gave forth a new crop of green shoots, which sprouted up as vigorously as if the bush were only just planted.

  I reached for one of its crimson blooms, and though t
he petals were dotted with rain drops, its scent was as heady as ever. Picking a number of stems, I ran to give them to my sister as she passed through the great hall. She took the posy from me with some grace, but then threw it back and cursed. A thorn had pierced her finger and blood had seeped onto her gown.

  As the rain continued to pour, Clemence de Lacy was married to Walter de Caburn in the porch of St Giles church, as was the custom. The ceremony was hastily conducted in front of the whole village by Father John of Cornwall, the priest with little Latin. Thankfully the earl did not attend.

  When the vows were finished, the village onlookers made their customary exclamations in praise of the beauty of the bride and the dignity of her new husband. But their words were a sham. The rain had leached Clemence’s rouge into pink stripes. And de Caburn, far from being a chivalrous knight, looked more like a guttersnipe who had stolen a barrel of ale and drunk it all himself. For my own part, it was impossible to feel any joy at this union, and as petals were thrown into the newlyweds’ path, I stepped back to avoid catching Clemence’s eye.

  The Peverils were even more disgusted by the appearance of my sister and her new husband than they had been by the missing tile. But at least the bedraggled bride and groom diverted attention from Cornwall’s Latin – though it was clear he had been practising, since his rendition of the vows was more passable than the mass I had attended. Nevertheless, it was still a hopeless cobble of incorrect vocabulary and poorly declined nouns. I noted Aunt Hillary’s exasperated puffs at each of his grammatical errors.

  With the ceremony and blessing completed, there was just one more obligation to fulfil before we could finally think about the wedding feast. A progress to the well of St Blaise, to take holy waters with the bride.

  The well was only a short walk from the church, but I still heard de Caburn protesting, especially as the visit involved drinking something as dreary as spring water. But Mother stood her ground with him. The de Lacys always took the well water after a marriage. Indeed, she had sent Gilbert to the well that same morning to cover the shrine in flowers. When de Caburn continued to complain, Mother pointed her finger at her new son-in-law and advised him to think of his heirs. If Clemence drank the waters of the well she would produce a son within the year. It seemed this promise, if nothing else, persuaded de Caburn that the visit was worth the effort.