Plague Land Page 6

  Cornwall rounded up the men to look upon the boy’s discovery. ‘It is an altar to Satan,’ he announced.

  The bones were weathered and I was able to pull a clump of fur from a fox tail that hung from a branch.

  ‘Don’t touch it, sire,’ said Cornwall. ‘The Devil has cursed this place.’ I groaned. Anybody could see this shrine was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to pray to the full range of deities – from the gods of the wood to the God of Israel. It had been here a long time and was, in all likelihood, the work of a desperate soul during the days when the Plague had flooded through this valley like the waters of a winter storm. I noticed Cornwall failed to draw anybody’s attention to the crudely formed crucifix of stones that also lay beneath the tree.

  After this unfortunate discovery, I suggested we split the group into two. Cornwall would continue to search the forest, whereas I would take a band of men towards the next village, Burrsfield. Cornwall claimed he needed the larger of our two groups, since he might come across a pack of dog heads at any moment and need the men to defend him with pikes or crossbows. Surely his words of prayer and the sight of his crucifix would be of more assistance in this situation, I suggested? He could scarcely argue, but suddenly there were more volunteers to go with me than were prepared to stay with him.

  Despite this unexpected and sudden enthusiasm I picked only five men – a group whose company I found agreeable.

  As we parted, the rain clouds opened and droplets of water quickly pierced the canopy of leaves, so that even with our hoods raised, we were soon wet to our skins. The summer had been like this for many days. The sunshine was ever short-lived, building to a bout of intense humidity and then followed by a storm. The forest still smelt of fungus and leaf mould, when it should have been sweetly scented with elderflower and honeysuckle. The dew ponds were overflowing and the mud of the tracks was thick and sticky.

  The place felt as sinister and dank as the crypt of the abbey, and we hurried to be away from its shaded menace.

  On reaching Burrsfield, I dismounted quickly and led Tempest to the stream, when a well-dressed man with a well-supplied belly limped across the path to greet me. He bowed to me awkwardly given his crooked leg and I recognised him as Geoffrey Wallwork, a local yeoman farmer who rented eighty acres from me. We exchanged greetings, and when I explained our purpose, he was insistent we join him for a warming bowl of pottage. Given the dampness of my clothes and the dejection that had suddenly descended on the men, I accepted his offer.

  Wallwork’s home was set back from the village by the length of two strips, and was a grander house than any of his neighbours’, with jetties forming an overhang above the small windows of the ground floor. There was no reason to increase the space in the upper chambers in this way, since the constriction of city life was not suffered in this small village – so Wallwork could only have added the projecting overhangs to show off his wealth. I noticed that these follies only existed along the frontage of the house in order to be fully admired from the road. At the back of the house, the walls were flat from the ground to the roof.

  Entering the hall I remembered having been here as a young child. The air was dark and smoky, and laced with the salty-sweet odour of the hams that hung from the high beams of the open hall, hoping to catch the smoke that rose from the open hearth and then seeped through the roof tiles. Wallwork called a girl from the shadows and she set up a trestle table and a bench for us next to the fire pit. While I warmed myself, my men were sent to the other end of the house to be seen to by a servant in the makeshift porch that served as the Wallworks’ kitchen.

  ‘Do you remember my daughter Abigail?’ asked Wallwork as the girl laid two pewter bowls upon the table.

  The girl was as fat and pink as her father. She smiled at me coyly and swept back her loose hair.‘Good day to you, sire,’ she said, bending low to pour me a drink – her large breasts wobbling like two bowls of freshly curdled cheese.

  ‘Abigail was to marry John Mortimer, weren’t you, dear girl,’ said Wallwork, taking the girl’s arm and leading her into a patch of light, so I might view her beauty to greater effect. ‘It was a very good match. He rented a good number of acres near Westford. But of course Abigail is able to read, and we farm eighty acres, so he would have been equally blessed.’

  The girl repeated the unnerving grin at me. Wallwork continued. ‘The unfortunate fellow died last year and poor Abigail is left without a marriage prospect. In the prime of her life. Healthy as a heifer in a bull field, aren’t you, dear girl.’ Abigail giggled and curtsied to her father.

  ‘There’s not a man around here worthy of her,’ he continued, his face beginning to redden. ‘Of course I’ve had many suitors at the door. But I tell them to go back to their families with their offers of marriage. I shall only find the best husband for my precious girl. And she’s the only child I have left, sire.’

  ‘We’ve all lost so many of our loved ones,’ I said, and then quickly changed the subject. ‘Now, Wallwork. I need to know. Have you had any trouble in the village? Has anybody raised your suspicions?’

  ‘Is this to do with the Starvecrow murders?’ I nodded. ‘So you think the murderer might have come from Burrsfield?’

  ‘It’s possible. But it could equally have been a stranger, or a traveller.’

  ‘There haven’t been any strangers here lately, sire. We don’t trust a soul we don’t know. Not since the Plague.’ Then a smile spread across his pink face. ‘It was the pilgrims who carried it here, you know. On their way to Rochester to pray for salvation. A lot of good that did them!’

  The irony tickled him, but when I didn’t laugh, he stopped promptly. ‘I’m sorry, sire. I just think they would have fared better by staying at home.’

  He then leant forward to speak to me quietly, even though the room was empty apart from his daughter. ‘Now, if you ask me, those Starvecrow girls were probably done in by a certain person in Old Ralph’s family.’

  ‘Which certain person?’

  ‘Most likely Joan Bath,’ cut in Abigail. ‘She’s an old biddy bitch and no mistaking.’

  Wallwork coughed. ‘Thank you, Abigail.’ Then he laughed again and slapped my leg. ‘These young girls? Full of earthiness.’ I think he may even have winked at me. I stood up instinctively.

  ‘Please, sire. Sit down. Abigail will get you some pottage, won’t you, girl? And bring the silver spoons. Lord Somershill would like to see them.’

  ‘I’m quite happy with this horn spoon, thank you, Wallwork.’

  ‘But my silver spoons bear the leopard’s head hallmark, sire. They are the best quality.’

  I sat down again, but further along the bench. ‘I’d like to know what makes you suspect this woman,’ I said. ‘I recognise her name.’

  ‘There’s plenty who know her name,’ said Abigail, but Wallwork glared at her before she had a chance to continue.

  ‘Go and get the spoons, girl,’ he said, though she still didn’t move.

  Wallwork then edged towards me, but shifting away from him any further along the bench would have meant falling off the end. ‘The Starvecrow girls were left orphaned,’ he told me. ‘After the Pestilence. But they have some hogs and possession of the land near a stream. Nothing like my family of course.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘I have eighteen hogs and four dozen ewes.’

  ‘Joan Bath?’

  Wallwork laughed. ‘Of course, sire. Joan Bath is Old Ralph’s daughter. You must know him? He’s a tenant of yours in Somershill.’ I nodded, though it was doubtful I could pick him out from the young Johns or old Geoffreys. ‘She was married to John Bath.’

  Abigail laughed. ‘Though not for long. She quickly did for him.’

  Wallwork glared at his daughter again. ‘He died of the flux, girl. There’s no proof Joan killed him. Now go and get that pottage and those silver spoons!’ As Abigail reluctantly sloped out of the room, Wallwork smiled at me. ‘Young girls will get such ideas into their heads.’ He patted my knee. ‘She ne
eds company, sire.’

  I drew back, though Wallwork hardly seemed to notice and patted my knee a second time.

  ‘Let’s return to Joan Bath, shall we?’ I said quickly.

  Wallwork’s face fell a little. ‘Yes. Of course, sire. What was it you wanted to know?’

  ‘Please tell me why you suspect this woman?’

  Now Wallwork cheered up a little. ‘Well. It’s like this. Joan’s father, Old Ralph, took a fancy to the Starvecrow hogs. So once Alison’s parents were dead, he hatched a plan to marry the girl. And she couldn’t do much to object. Not having any family to see him off.’

  ‘Surely she was too young to marry?’ I said, thinking back to the fragile corpse we had discovered in the undergrowth.

  ‘She was fourteen, sire. More than ripe for the marriage bed.’ He winked at me again. ‘I expect you, being of noble and more refined blood, like a girl to be a little more mature. My Abigail is seventeen you know.’

  I ignored this comment. ‘Alison Starvecrow was fourteen? Are you sure? She looked only ten or eleven when I saw her dead body.’

  Wallwork sighed. ‘Ah yes. Those Starvecrow girls were a sickly pair. Alison was stunted like dwarfed rootstock. And Matilda has a head full of demons. Not that it’s put off Old Ralph. With the older girl dead he’ll marry the sister. That’s if you can find her alive.’ He winked at me and whispered. ‘He likes them young.’

  We were interrupted by Abigail who had returned with the pottage and silver spoons, which to my surprise, were finer than most of ours at Somershill. The years before the Plague had been good to yeoman farmers, many of whom prospered as greatly from farming as a lord could from renting out his land. I dipped the spoon into the pottage and found it to be full of fresh peas and tender hoof marrow.

  I ate it quickly, and as Abigail leant over me to ladle a second helping into my bowl, I caught her arm. ‘Tell me some more about Joan Bath.’ I watched her pink cheeks redden to a deep crimson.

  ‘Go on, dear girl,’ said Wallwork, pleased at my sudden, if belated interest in his daughter.

  ‘Joan is Old Ralph’s daughter by Maggie Wide-legs,’ she told me.

  ‘That was Margaret Furlong, sire,’ said Wallwork quickly. ‘Maggie Wide-legs is just a silly name some of the rascals gave her when she was alive.’ He coughed. ‘She had dreadful problems with her hips.’

  I suppressed an urge to laugh. ‘Why do you think Joan is involved with Alison’s murder?’

  ‘She didn’t want her father marrying that girl, did she?’ said Abigail.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cause Joan was going to get Old Ralph’s house and land when he dies. And he’s got no teeth.’

  ‘No teeth?’

  ‘Boils on his gums, sire. Don’t reckon he’s long to go. His breath smells like a dog’s arse.’ I dropped her arm.

  Wallwork scowled, but quickly changed the expression on his face to an obsequious smile. ‘Old Ralph can smell a little stale, sire. That’s all she means, don’t you, dear girl.’ Abigail nodded nervously. ‘Young ladies will get bawdy when they haven’t a husband to tame them.’ He leant over and took my leg again. ‘Now, if you were to think about taking a wife, sire.’ He nodded towards Abigail and she giggled.

  I stood up as if this would somehow extricate me from this awkward situation. ‘Thank you, Wallwork. That is a thoughtful suggestion. But I’m not looking for a wife at the present time. My situation is too . . . demanding.’

  Wallwork was not as discouraged by this announcement as I had hoped. ‘That’s quite understandable, sire.’ He then joined me by standing up to whisper in my ear. ‘But if you would like to taste the pie before purchase, then I’m sure that Abigail would be amenable to such an arrangement. With certain assurances, I would make no moral objections to such youthful exuberance. After all, it is the summer. And the birds are nesting.’

  Abigail had heard every word of this supposedly private conversation, and she smiled, as if being peddled by her own father were just a foolish but amusing embarrassment. I thought of my own father. No doubt such an arrangement would have suited him. But it did not suit me.

  ‘No thank you, Wallwork,’ I said. And then seeing the girl’s face fall, and in an attempt to alleviate her humiliation I added, ‘It is a very tempting offer, but I believe my mother is looking into my matrimonial options. And I wouldn’t want to upset her.’

  Wallwork sighed. ‘Perhaps then, if you need a little diversion in the meantime. Abigail’s as ripe as the cherry on the tree, and ready for picking.’ He winked again. ‘You wouldn’t have to marry her, sire. Just relax my rent a little. I’m sure that her services would more than please you.’

  ‘No thank you, Wallwork.’

  His eyes narrowed to a frown. ‘But the harvest is bad this year, sire. I’ll struggle to pay my rent.’

  ‘Please, Wallwork. Let the matter drop.’

  ‘I only have one farmhand left to collect all the grain. So I was thinking we could come to an arrangement. And Abigail’s taken a liking to you, sire. I can tell.’

  I looked at the poor girl, who had backed into the shadows with her face to the floor. ‘Wallwork, please stop this. We’re not at the horse fair.’ He went to object, but I held up my hand. ‘The girl is your daughter!’

  His head drooped. ‘As you like, sire.’

  I dusted down my tunic, thanked him for his hospitality, and then asked to be directed to Joan Bath’s house.

  As I rounded up the men in the kitchen, I heard Wallwork call his daughter a foul-mouthed slut.

  Chapter Five

  Joan Bath lived a way outside the village of Somershill, on a north-facing slope where the lands of my estate started to rise towards the forests of the weald. Nobody else inhabited this area – since the ground was damp and boggy from the waters that drained from the hills. Joan was a cottar with only a small curtilage of land about her cottage, paid for by her services to the manor. But, according to the men, Joan never turned up to labour in the fields herself. She always sent her sons.

  The cottage itself was humble but not dilapidated. No weeds grew from the thatched roof, and the timbers were not rotten, though they rested in the soil without stone foundations. The cottage sat in the middle of the narrow strip of land that was divided between a densely stocked vegetable patch and a small orchard. A bony cow chewed at some long grass while a pig stretched out beneath one of the apple trees, but there was no stench of animal dung hanging about the place. Instead I had seen a pile of decomposing manure further down the path, next to a mountain of crumbling soil that was dark and sweet smelling.

  As we rode towards the cottage we saw two boys picking peas and collecting them in a wicker basket. They looked up at our group suspiciously, as a skeletal dog ran out to greet us with a set of bared teeth.

  ‘Call off your dog,’ I shouted, as the snarling creature edged towards us. The boys turned to the house and looked for instruction, where a tall woman now leant against the doorpost and watched us with her arms folded. I pulled on Tempest’s reins, for this was the same woman I had seen at the Starvecrow cottage. Her black and glossy hair still uncovered. Her face still grey and stony.

  Gower rode up beside me and pointed to the boys. ‘That’s all Joan’s got left, sire. Out of six sons. And each one a bastard.’

  ‘Do you know her well?’ I asked. Gower looked away and bit his lip. ‘Oh no, sire. She’s nothing to me.’

  And then I recalled why the name of Joan Bath had been familiar. She was the widow of a Somershill villein, but since her husband’s death had continued to produce a string of illegitimate children – despite the childwyte fines she received at the manorial court. It was now obvious to me why the men had been reluctant to identify her before. She was the village whore.

  In the daylight Joan appeared only slightly less sinister than she had in the gloom of that cottage, and I found myself wondering how she made such a success of her trade, given that there was little to admire in her face other than its
severity. Clearly the paying public of this part of the county were not too fussy. Or perhaps it was simply that Joan had the whole market to herself? But then I am a young man and no judge of true beauty, often drawn to girls with the faces of kittens. As Mother has frequently warned me, a pretty foal will make an ugly mare.

  ‘Here, dog!’ Joan called to the growling beast, which then slunk back towards the house with its tail between its legs, only reviving its spirits after she offered her hand to nuzzle. The dog settled down beside her, watching her face intently for her next instruction. And it was not the only creature expected to obey this woman, for she quickly shooed the two boys into the cottage and then shut the door on them.

  We dismounted and tied our horses to the apple tree near the door.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked as we approached. The five men who had accompanied me to this interview looked at their feet. ‘I only see gentlemen one at a time. You should know that, Gower.’

  Gower snorted and turned to me. ‘I don’t never visit this woman, sire. She makes things up to tease us. To make trouble.’ He turned back to Joan. ‘It’s ’cause she knows that no man would take her as his wife. Dirty whore!’

  At these words of insult Joan took a stone from a pile by the door and hurled it towards Gower. I had the feeling these small missiles were kept on a ledge for such occasions as these.

  ‘You pigs!’ she shouted. ‘There isn’t one wife in this parish who could give birth to as many sons as I have.’

  Gower picked up the stone from the ground and went to return fire, but I held back his arm. ‘Put it down!’ I said, though he struggled against me. ‘Do as I command you!’ As Gower reluctantly let the stone fall, I turned to Joan. The woman had resumed her indolent lean against the doorpost and was looking straight at me. ‘I’m here to discuss the Starvecrows with you, Mistress Bath.’

  ‘What about them?’

  Gower resumed hostilities. ‘Show respect to Lord Somershill.’