Plague Land Page 8

  ‘What are you planting?’ I asked him.

  ‘Herbs. My stocks of medicine are low.’

  ‘Are you going to grow any meadowsweet or dandelions?’

  Peter looked at me quizzically. ‘This will be a herb garden, Oswald. Not a patch of weeds. Why are you asking such foolish questions? ‘

  ‘It was just something I heard. I wanted Tempest to like me.’

  Peter stopped work and leant upon his spade. ‘Are you feeling unwell? You look a little flushed. And what’s that scratch on your face?’

  I waved the question away. ‘Have you heard Matilda Starvecrow is missing and probably dead?’

  He returned to his digging. ‘Yes. Your mother gave me the sad news this morning. I understand you raised the hue and cry.’

  I nodded. ‘For what good it did me.’

  ‘So nothing was discovered?’

  ‘We didn’t find any dog heads, if that’s what you mean?’

  Peter frowned and struck the soil again with his spade. ‘I need more lavender, and parsley. There’s some lovage by the barn, but I haven’t found any sweet cicely. There must be some on this estate. Perhaps I’ll look down by the pond.’

  ‘I’ve taken a woman called Joan Bath into custody,’ I told him. ‘It was she who scratched me.’

  Peter looked up again. ‘Into custody for what?’

  ‘For the murders of course.’ He drove the spade deeply into the soil and then folded his arms. ‘Joan has good reason to want the girls dead,’ I continued, despite the look of doubt that was creeping across his face. ‘Her father had planned to marry one or other of the Starvecrow sisters.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘In the event of such a marriage, Joan stood to lose her claim to his land.’

  Peter now grimaced. ‘It seems a rather circumstantial argument. What proof do you have?’

  ‘I found Old Ralph bound and gagged in Joan’s house. She meant to kill him. Her own father.’

  ‘But does that mean she murdered the Starvecrows?’

  ‘I think it does.’

  Peter cocked his head to one side. ‘Maybe.’ He then resumed his digging, although this time he was just scratching at the surface of mud. ‘Joan is the village whore, Oswald. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s unlikely to receive a fair trial.’

  ‘If she murdered two girls, then she deserves to hang.’

  ‘If . . .’ He looked up from his digging and fixed me with a glare. ‘It’s convenient you’ve solved the mystery so speedily.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased. You told me to investigate.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m pleased you’re making an effort. Of course. But you must not rush to conclusions, Oswald.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  He dropped the spade and took my arm. ‘I’ve known the Bath family for many years. Joan is a sinner, but she has been sinned against. By those closest to her.’ Then he whispered, ‘I cannot reveal the secrets of the confessional, but you must believe me in this regard.’

  I shook his arm away. If we were discussing convenience, then nothing was more convenient to sway an argument than a priest alluding to a secret he had heard in confession. ‘What manner of sins?’

  He frowned. ‘I cannot say, Oswald. I am bound by my oaths.’

  ‘Then don’t drop such hints.’

  ‘I merely want you to think the matter through. To make some allowances for the woman’s behaviour. The crime against her father might have nothing to do with the murders of the Starvecrow sisters.’

  ‘Why do you care so much? What is the village whore to you?’

  Now he pointed his finger into my face. ‘That’s enough, Oswald! Christ taught us to love our neighbour, even if she is a harlot. Have you forgotten everything you were taught at the monastery?’

  I shrank away from him. ‘I still think Joan is guilty,’ I said softly.

  ‘You think?’ He snorted. ‘What good is that? You must be sure if you are to send a person to the gallows.’

  We didn’t speak for a few moments and I considered leaving, but it upset me to argue with Peter – so I took the beads from my pouch and held them out on my palm, hoping to appease him by seeking his opinion. ‘What do you think of these, Brother?’ I asked.

  Peter screwed up his eyes to look closer. His near sight was poor. ‘They’re red coral. Where did you get them?’

  ‘I found them under Matilda’s bed.’

  He took a single bead in his hand and held it to the light.

  ‘Have you seen such beads before?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. On a paternoster rosary.’

  ‘Could it belong to Cornwall then?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘He was acting strangely in the Starvecrow cottage. As if he had lost something.’

  Peter frowned. ‘I doubt it. Only a bishop or baron would own such an item. Coral paternosters are very valuable.’

  ‘Did our abbot own one?’

  ‘No. I don’t believe so.’

  ‘I just thought I’d seen it before.’

  Peter smiled. ‘I expect you saw a similar rosary when the Bishop of Rochester visited.’

  I shrugged. ‘Do you think Cornwall could have stolen it?’

  A shadow now crossed Peter’s face. ‘More reckless accusations, Oswald? We might not like Cornwall, but the man is still a priest.’

  ‘Then what were prized beads doing under the bed of a peasant girl?’

  ‘Perhaps Matilda is your thief?’

  ‘But who would she have stolen them from? I doubt she knew any archbishops or barons.’

  I held out my hand for Peter to return the bead, but instead he closed his fingers about it. ‘I’ve heard Brother Thomas still lives,’ he told me. ‘He’s staying in Cowden before he returns to the abbey. I could take the beads to him and ask his opinion? He is an expert in devotional jewellery.’

  I hesitated, feeling strangely reluctant to pass over the remaining nine beads. They were such perfect little spheres of red and I suddenly felt covetous of their beauty and value.

  But I was being foolish. ‘Of course, Brother. Ask Thomas. It would be helpful.’

  I gave him the beads, which he dropped into a pouch. ‘And will you think again regarding Joan Bath?’ he asked me, as he tied the pouch to his belt.

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Please, Oswald.’

  ‘But I’m sure she’s guilty.’

  The next morning I visited Old Ralph, to see if it were possible to rouse a little more sense from the man. He was being cared for by his sister-in-law, Mary Cadebridge – a local woman known for her good deeds and willingness to embrace any opportunity to improve her standing with the Almighty.

  Gilbert often told the tale of how Mary had welcomed a group of wandering flagellants into her home when news of the Plague first reached Somershill. She hoped their devotion to pain might dust her family with the grace of God. But the flagellants were not part of the famed group from Flanders. And instead of reflecting her in their piety, they turned out to be a group of swindlers, who made off with her supply of wine and the virginity of her daughter.

  When I informed Gilbert that Old Ralph was staying at Mary’s house, he raised a rare smile. ‘Mary used to deny they were even related,’ he told me. ‘Though the man was married to her own sister.’ Then he chuckled. ‘If Ralph doesn’t die of being tied up by his own daughter, then he’ll die of being prayed to death.’

  Mary’s cottage was grander and more neatly kept than many others in the village, but the noise of Ralph’s moaning and the wailing of Mary’s newly born grandson reminded me of the Bankside stews I had once seen on a visit to Southwark cathedral. Noisy brothels that clustered along the banks of the Thames and paid such good rents to the Bishop of Winchester.

  I knocked at Mary’s door and enquired after Ralph, but was told he still ran a fever and was too unwell to speak to anybody but God himself. Mary ass
ured me she was praying for his soul and was certain he would either be delivered back into the fold of his family by the next morning, or transported into the next life surrounded by those he loved. Mary then cursed Joan for subjecting her own father to such degradations, and hoped to see the witch hanging by the throat at the very earliest opportunity.

  Walking away from Mary’s house I began to wonder if Mary herself stood to inherit the possession of Old Ralph’s land in the event of his death, with Joan removed from the line. She seemed suddenly so interested in justice for her brother-in-law – a man she had previously refused to acknowledge.

  My next port of call was the gaol house. I would tell you this building was an impenetrable fortress modelled upon the White Tower itself, but a modest room with bars at the window was a more appropriate way to describe it. It did at least have a gaoler, Henry Smith, though, as his name suggests, he also worked the village forge. I believe he had secured the position as some-time keeper by offering my father a deal on the manufacture of the studded doors.

  I passed a few pleasantries with Henry, informing him that Piers the stableboy would be sent to Rochester to notify the sheriff of the crimes. I was unable to try murder in the manorial court, so would have to wait for a royal judge and the Hundreds court to come to Somershill. It was impossible to predict how long this would take. Justice was known to be a slow-moving cart, but since the Plague its wheels seemed firmly stuck in the mud.

  It soon became clear that Henry was not hoping for a quick trial, since he would receive a small stipend for his duties guarding Joan. And Henry was a man in need of a stipend, since his business at the forge had reduced sizeably in the wake of the Plague. It seemed few cared to shoe their horses or mend their tools when a dead neighbour’s goods could be had for nothing.

  I found Joan Bath sitting in the corner of the one and only cell. Henry had supplied her with a small chunk of bread and a mug of milk, though I had not requested him to do this. She did not stand up to greet me.

  ‘I need to find Matilda’s body,’ I told her. ‘The girl deserves to be buried.’

  She shrugged at me insolently and carried on chewing her bread. ‘I don’t know where the girl is.’

  ‘There’s no point lying to me, Mistress Bath. Matilda must be dead. There was too much blood.’

  ‘If that’s your conclusion. Then she must be dead.’

  ‘So where’s her body?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she said again. I stepped back quickly, as she looked in the mood to assault me once more.

  Henry opened the door a little. ‘Are you all right, sire?’

  ‘Perfectly. Thank you.’ He closed the door again, though stood just the other side of the grille.

  Joan then looked up at me in the way my brothers might have, both confident and defiant – the very opposite of the usually demure village woman. Perhaps this explained her appeal amongst the local men.

  ‘I’ve just been to visit your father,’ I told her. ‘But I couldn’t speak to him as he’s gravely ill.’

  ‘Will he die?’ Her tongue savoured the word, so I chose not to give her the pleasure of knowing his proximity to death.

  ‘Just tell me where Matilda’s body is, and I promise your sons will keep your cottage.’

  ‘My sons can look after themselves.’

  ‘Can they?’

  For a moment she looked unsure of herself. I thought she might open up to me, but her face soon took flight to its well-defended keep and she would say nothing more.

  I was wasting my time.

  Leaving the gaol house I felt grubby and contaminated, as if I were a linen rag beginning to soak up the filth of this affair. I had also developed a raging thirst, but did not care to call in at the tavern and drink alongside the village men. What would I talk to them about? Instead I headed through the woody glade above the village to the Holy Well, where the waters rose from the rocks beneath the shrine to St Blaise. The water was clean enough, if you could stand the leaden taste.

  It was still light, but there was nobody else on the path – my only company the strange whirr of the goatsucker bird as it called across the forest at twilight. The last rays of sun slanted obliquely through the canopy and illuminated the arching leaves of the ground ferns. Thin strands of light glinted from the piles of pine needles in the growing nests of wood ants. It seemed a peaceful and benevolent place, but then I had the unexpected sensation of being watched.

  They say the god Pan lurks in forests and spies upon you from secret places. Stand still and you can feel his eyes upon the back of your head. His breath upon your skin. But turn to catch his face and he is gone – leaving only the echo of his laughter and distant patter of his hooves. I pulled my cloak about me and carried on. I was too old to believe in such stories.

  As I reached the well, the wooden effigy of St Blaise loomed above me – his beady black eyes staring at something on the horizon. He might be saint to the traders of wool, but would he look kindly upon my efforts at sheep shearing? I doubted it. But then he had done nothing to save my shepherds from the Plague. Perhaps I believed more in the powers of Pan?

  Turning my back to the effigy, I climbed down the steps to an underground chamber where the water bubbled up from a spring in the rock face and fell in a lethargic flow into a deep stone trough. When this trough became full, the water then slid over a shallow lip and into a land drain. Where it went then was anybody’s guess.

  The water had an odd salty flavour and was the colour of rusting iron. Amongst the wonders ascribed to its holiness were the promise of relief from colic and melancholia. More widely known was its power to have a bride with child within a month of the wedding night. All these cures and small miracles were claimed for its waters, but in my experience its foremost effect was to send a person straight to the nearest latrine.

  I drank from my hands and splashed my face in the stone basin, waking myself from the stupor of the day. As the water settled again, a face seemed to appear, just below the surface. Cold blue eyes watched my own. Pale skin glowed from the blackness.

  It was Matilda.

  I jumped back in terror, nearly winding myself against the rock of the wall behind me. Here was her missing corpse. Submerged in a well.

  Taking a deep breath, I crept forward again, but this time saw nothing in the water at all. Now I panicked and plunged my arms into the basin, feeling about desperately in its depths. But my hands found only smooth stones and a forgotten ampulla, left here by a pilgrim.

  I waited for the water to settle once again and stared into its darkness. And as the surface calmed to a glassy standstill, somebody stared back at me.

  It was a person with Matilda’s blonde hair and Matilda’s thin face. But it was not Matilda. It was my own reflection.

  And then I knew for sure. The Starvecrows were my sisters.

  I ran back to the village and didn’t stop until reaching the churchyard, coming to a standstill by Alison’s recently dug grave. Looking down at the wooden crucifix that marked the end of her short life, I wished I could pray for them both. For Alison and Matilda. But I couldn’t. My faith was too pale and feeble.

  Instead I spoke to Alison. Kneeling down and putting my face to the ground, I whispered into the wet and cold soil. I told her Joan had been arrested for the crimes, and that the woman would probably hang. Of course Alison didn’t answer, although I was fanciful enough to put my ear to the grave and listen for a response.

  When I promised to find Matilda’s body, the ground sighed.

  Chapter Seven

  I would keep my promise to Alison and Matilda, but my duties on the estate were beginning to poke at my skin like the bristles on a sack vest, and I could ignore them no longer.

  June is the month to shear sheep, or so my reeve, Featherby, had informed me – a man with a looming gait and hair so tightly curled it looked as if his head were covered in worm casts. I had nodded knowingly, but in truth had little idea what he was talking about since my eldest brother
William had been destined to become Lord Somershill, not I. My life had been spent in a monastery since the age of seven, where the lay brothers had taken care of the abbey farm, leaving the novices to spend their time in mass, class, or silent contemplation. My only practical skills were setting arms, draining wounds and shaving the other novices’ heads.

  But that was an old, forgotten life, to which I could never return. I knew that. And as I looked myself over in the mirror that morning I made myself stand a little taller than before. I even looked back down my nose at my own reflection. Why shouldn’t I be Lord Somershill? I might be young and inexperienced, but I had as much energy as my older brothers, and certainly more education.

  There was no reason to be afraid.

  I was eating my daybreak bread and cheese with Mother in the great hall later that same morning when Clemence joined us. I should have been pleased to see my sister, since Mother was talking without stopping for breath. But Clemence’s brow was already twisted into her early-morning grimace – a temporary flaw that, with age, was hardening into a permanent warp.

  Clemence took her bread and cheese, looked me over, and suddenly cheered up. I was wearing a leather tunic that had belonged to Father and which smelt of mildew and horses. I had purposefully chosen to wear it that morning, since it looked agricultural – having organised to oversee the sheep shearing – but the unpleasant aroma was not the tunic’s only deficiency. It drowned my slim frame, and although I had tried to roll up the cuffs, the leather was hard and resisted being turned over, so that only the ends of my fingers poked out of the sleeves.

  Clemence squeezed up to me on the bench and smiled. ‘I hope you’re not stampeded by the rams today, little brother. We wouldn’t want to lose our new lord.’ She then lifted the baggy sleeve of my tunic and pulled a face of mock dismay when she found it so loose. ‘Heavens. Is there an arm in there?’

  I went to push her away, but she dodged my hand just in time.

  ‘No fighting please,’ said Mother, her mouth full of rye bread. ‘It makes me choleric.’ We ignored her. If she wasn’t choleric, she was phlegmatic – her humours rarely in balance.