The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  The tall woman bowed her head respectfully to Aldith in response. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said calmly. ‘In that case, we must not make the same mistake again. We cannot risk losing any more women.’

  Aldith poked her nose in the air, but thought better of responding.

  Roach, however, was unable to hold his tongue. ‘Now just wait a moment,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to say that those women are—’

  He wasn’t allowed to finish his sentence. ‘Master Roach,’ exclaimed the tall woman. ‘Agnes Wheeler was attacked in the forest. What more reason do you need to mount a Hue and Cry?’ Roach opened his mouth to make a second objection, but she cut across him. ‘Brother Oswald will tell you where to look,’ she said. ‘Won’t you?’ she added, casting her eyes back to mine. I nodded keenly in response.

  ‘But—’ he said, trying his very best to make one last objection.

  ‘A Hue and Cry,’ she announced with an air of finality. ‘Search the forest with a band of men. Agnes’s attacker must still be out there somewhere.’

  Roach admitted defeat at last, unable to stand his ground against the power and authority of this woman. He puffed out his chest, pushed the mop of white hair from his face and then muttered a surly agreement.

  As he shoved his way back through from the crowd, the women jostled and jeered at his retreating back. ‘Cockroach, Cockroach,’ they called, until he was finally out of sight.

  Chapter Three

  The crowd slowly drifted away, giving my new friend the opportunity to introduce herself. ‘I don’t believe that we’ve met before,’ she said, inclining her head to mine. ‘My name is Maud Woodstock. Perhaps you know my father, Roger?’

  I nodded, since I knew the family name well, though I’d never met the famous Maud Woodstock in person. At least I now understood the reason for John Roach’s grudging deference towards her, as Roger Woodstock was the richest farmer in the manor of Kintham, renting over two hundred acres from the Abbey and amassing more wealth than many local noblemen. He had been an industrious but difficult man until being struck down by an apoplexy more than two years earlier – meaning that Maud, his only surviving child, had been forced to take over his farm. I’d heard that Woodstock could no longer walk, talk or even feed himself, though he had remained alive, which was testament to the quality of his daughter’s care, since most patients with this same affliction do not last longer than a month. I had often heard the Abbot complaining about having to deal with Maud rather than her father, particularly as she had gained a reputation for being high-handed and obstinate. But I paid no heed to the Abbot’s opinion. The man had little regard for women – tending to dismiss them all as dull and stupid, especially the interesting and intelligent ones.

  ‘Thank you for speaking up on my behalf,’ I said.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she replied, with another bow of her head. ‘I’ve known your father and brothers in Somershill for many years. We often work together.’ I nodded faintly, as I knew very little of my family’s business dealings, having spent most of my life in the monastery. She must have detected this, as she quickly added, ‘I sometimes join forces with William and Richard to trade fleeces in London. We achieve better prices by collaborating.’

  We took a moment to step to one side as two men carried Agnes’s body away from the green towards the distant cottages. One man held her under her arms. The other man held on to her feet. Unfortunately Agnes now looked like a drunken customer being removed from an inn by a couple of brothel bullies. The girl’s mother, Beatrice Wheeler, staggered along at the tail end of this sad procession, being comforted by a group of three women.

  Maud cleared her throat and turned back to look at me. ‘But there are worse things than being undercut by a crooked London merchant, aren’t there?’ she said. When I didn’t answer, she added, ‘What a terrible experience this has been for you.’

  I wiped my face clear of sweat. ‘Far worse for Agnes,’ I replied, once again feeling the strong urge to sob. It had become an involuntary compulsion, like shivering or an attack of hiccups.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ said Maud. ‘It wasn’t your fault that the poor girl died.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  She patted my arm softly. ‘You were only trying to help Agnes,’ she replied. ‘Your intentions were good. There’s no reason for you to feel any guilt.’

  As her hands touched my sleeve I couldn’t help but notice how handsome they were. They belonged to a noblewoman – smooth and white, without the callouses and red patches of hands that have worked the soil, washed clothes or tended to animals. For a moment I was transfixed by their beauty, before I experienced another sensation. How strange it was to feel the touch of a woman, after so many years of male company. Even though her hand was laid on the thick, woollen cloth of my habit, it felt as if she had caressed my skin. This feeling was both unwelcome and enormously thrilling.

  * * *

  Maud and I waited together on the green until Roach returned with a group of about six men for the promised Hue and Cry. This number was the minimum requirement for any such search, so it hardly displayed any efforts on Roach’s behalf. If this deficiency were not bad enough, the men Roach had picked were a tired, dispirited bunch – not the baying mob that I might have expected to ride into the forest and search for Agnes’s attacker.

  Even so, I did my best to inspire their anger and sense of outrage at her death. After describing the many injuries that I’d seen on Agnes’s body, I then identified the spot near to the mire, where I’d first seen her hiding. It was possible that this was near to the place where she’d been attacked, so I felt it was worth mentioning. My words had little effect on these men, however. They rode away with sullen, indifferent shrugs, as if they’d been asked to round up a missing goat or a disobedient dog. I watched them leave, holding out little hope that they would find anything. This supposed Hue and Cry was little more than a perfunctory exercise, carried out by Roach to satisfy Maud’s command.

  Maud had the kindness to stay with me for a little longer, but once the last rider had disappeared into the woodland at the edge of the village, she curtsied and excused herself, saying that she needed to attend to her sick father.

  * * *

  Now completely alone, I found myself wondering if I should return to the monastery, before deciding to stay. It wouldn’t reflect well on me if I deserted Stonebrook before the Hue and Cry returned, and so I found a bench at the other side of the green, where there was a little shade. Every so often, I could see people looking at me from the main street of Stonebrook. Their glances were quickly averted, but I was being watched closely nonetheless. The attention was unnerving, so I resorted to studying the weave of my habit with great interest. This diversion worked well enough, until I found a stain of Agnes’s blood, which only made me feel worse. In the end, I focused on an arbitrary spot in the near distance, and tried my very best not to make eye contact with anybody.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, as time stretches and bends when a person is waiting for something to happen. A moment can seem to last for hours. Eventually I was approached by a short and stout man – one of the fellows who had lifted Agnes’s body from the green. He came to me with the news that the dead girl’s mother wanted to speak to me again. The poor woman was in a wretched state, but I cannot lie. The prospect of another cross-examination about the circumstances of Agnes’s death was most unwelcome. On the other hand, I could hardly blame the woman for requesting this interview. There was little more that I could reveal, but she deserved the opportunity to ask.

  * * *

  Beatrice Wheeler lived in a small cottage, situated in some rough land behind the larger houses that lined the main street of Stonebrook. It was a poor sort of place. At first glance, I had assumed it was a stable, for there were no windows and the thatched roof was slipping down over the door, like an overgrown fringe. I only realised that this was a place of human habitation when I heard female voices
coming from inside, as they tried to comfort Beatrice’s loud sobbing. Hearing her distress, I was tempted to turn back, except that I’d been followed to the door by the stout man – who now stood behind me with his arms crossed. I therefore had no choice but to open the rickety door and step across the threshold to come face to face with the same three women who I’d seen accompanying Beatrice across the green. Now they crowded around her bed, forming a protective wall in front of the woman. Though they looked at me with cold and reproachful eyes, I held their gaze, since I could not bear the alternative view. Just to my right Agnes’s body was laid out on a table, with a linen sheet covering her small, battered body.

  ‘Who’s there?’ came Beatrice’s voice from behind the brown tunics and grey kirtles.

  ‘It’s the young priest,’ whispered a girl who had removed her veil to reveal a head of hair that was so brightly auburn it was almost pink, like the colour of raw salmon. Even in this meagre light, it was luminous.

  I spoke up. ‘I understand that Mistress Wheeler wanted to see me,’ I said. ‘But I can come back later, if it pleases her.’

  I stepped back in the hope of being excused, only for Beatrice to poke her arm and then her head through the skirts. ‘No. I will see you now,’ she said.

  The women parted a little. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Beatrice?’ said her oldest companion – a woman who was wearing a white apron covered in filthy handprints. ‘It may upset you.’ The woman threw me a hostile look and then leant down to whisper into Beatrice’s ear. ‘After what he did.’

  Beatrice sat up in her bed. ‘I must see him,’ she said firmly, pushing the woman aside. ‘Leave us to speak alone.’

  Her companions exchanged glances with one another, before they reluctantly filed out of the cottage, only to gather outside. We could see their feet huddled together through the large gap beneath the door.

  Beatrice beckoned me to come closer and to take a seat on a stool beside the bed. I did as she asked and then waited for her to speak, only to find that she remained completely silent. Instead of saying anything, she just stared at me. Her red, tear-stained eyes not moving from my face.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Agnes,’ I said, not knowing how else to start this conversation.

  If I thought this would break her torpor, then I was wrong, as she continued to stare until she finally spoke in a thin whisper. ‘There’s something that I want to tell you,’ she said.

  I hesitated, trying to conceal my instinctive wariness. For some reason I already knew that I didn’t want to hear what she had to say. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Agnes was William’s daughter,’ she told me, blurting out the words.

  I knew a number of Williams. Probably more than ten. After all, it is one of the most common Christian names in England. ‘I’m sorry, Mistress Wheeler,’ I mumbled. ‘But which William are you talking about?’

  She puffed out a short laugh at this. ‘Your brother William.’

  ‘I don’t think that we have a Brother William at Kintham.’

  ‘I’m not talking about a monk at your monastery,’ she said. ‘I’m talking about your brother. William de Lacy.’

  My mouth fell open at this disclosure. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying that Agnes was William’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I was nearly lost for words. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she hissed. ‘And we were both sixteen. So I knew what I was doing, if that’s what’s troubling you? William didn’t force me.’

  ‘Does William know about this?’ I asked, as a terrible realisation dawned on me. If this woman’s story were true, then I had caused the death of my own niece.

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘But perhaps you should have told him?’

  She managed a snort of laughter at this. ‘Your brother is the son of Lord Somershill. And who am I? The daughter of a villein. The man who looked after your family’s hounds.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘When I found out that I was carrying a child, it was easier for me to keep quiet and marry Ned Wheeler,’ she said. ‘Nobody ever guessed that Agnes was William’s daughter.’

  ‘So why are you telling me now?’

  ‘Because I want you to tell William that she’s dead. I regret keeping it a secret. He should know what’s happened.’ As I struggled to find an answer to this proposal, she inclined her head to mine and whispered, ‘My poor Agnes looked so much like your brother. Every day I could see William’s likeness in her lovely face.’ She paused. ‘I often wondered if you would notice it, Brother Oswald? Especially as Agnes came to the monastery so often.’

  Sweat was beading on my forehead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied. ‘I never noticed a resemblance.’

  Beatrice didn’t like this answer. In an instant she’d thrown back the blanket and swung her feet to the floor. ‘Come with me,’ she said, stumbling over to the table where Agnes’s body lay beneath its sheet. I followed reluctantly, keeping my eyes to the floor as Beatrice pulled back the linen pall that covered her daughter’s face.

  ‘Don’t look away,’ she said. ‘This is Agnes. Your brother’s child.’ She grasped my right hand and thrust it against Agnes’s cheek, so that my fingertips rested against her cold flesh. I wanted to pull away and yet I couldn’t. ‘Look at her, Brother Oswald.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Look at her,’ she repeated. ‘Can you not see your brother’s likeness?’

  I forced myself to look down again at Agnes’s tiny face for the last time, for she would be buried in the next few hours. I would tell you that the girl appeared to be at peace – but there was little human about her any longer. Her features were shrunken and artificial.

  Beatrice squeezed my hand tightly, as if this would encourage me to agree with her. ‘I want you to write to William,’ she said. ‘To tell him about Agnes.’ She squeezed again. ‘You owe it to me.’

  I tried to pull my hand away, but her grip was tight. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you wrote it yourself?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I can’t read or write. You have to do it for me.’

  I went to protest, but the words stuck on my tongue and wouldn’t escape. I didn’t want to write such a letter. In fact the idea was almost horrifying. William was twelve years my senior, and the proud owner of a volatile and cruel temper. I had spent my childhood at Somershill trying to avoid his attentions at all costs, not least because he had delighted in tormenting me.

  Beatrice sensed my reluctance. ‘Agnes was your brother’s child. You said yourself that I should have told him.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Will you do it?’ she asked, glaring into my face. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Write to him, Brother Oswald,’ she said, squeezing my hand again. ‘Promise me that you’ll do it.’

  I mumbled some kind of answer and then pulled my hand from hers, before I blundered out into the daylight, knocking into the gaggle of women who were still huddled by the door. The girl with the red hair went to speak to me, so I quickly straightened up and strode away, hoping to put as much space between myself and Beatrice’s cottage as possible.

  I had nearly reached the street when the girl caught up with me and called out my name. I didn’t want to speak to her, but she darted in front of me, and I had no choice but to stop.

  ‘We don’t blame you for what happened to Agnes, Brother Oswald,’ she said. ‘At least I don’t.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, trying to set off again, only to find that she darted in front of me for a second time.

  ‘But was Agnes very frightened?’ she asked. ‘That’s what worries me.’

  ‘She wasn’t herself,’ I answered, hoping that the girl would take the hint and leave me alone.

  ‘Did she suffer?’ she asked, looking up into my eyes. ‘I hate to think of Agnes suffering.’

  Of course Agnes had suffered! What a
foolish question. The girl had escaped a brutal attacker, only to be driven into the waters of a swollen river by a well-meaning fool. She could not have had a worse end to her life. I went to tell this girl as much when I spotted a familiar face on the other side of the green, striding towards me with his usual determination – his arms swinging in time with his legs, the sun reflecting from the dome of his bald head.

  I was so pleased to see Brother Peter, that I nearly ran into his arms – only holding back at the last moment when I realised that this feeling wasn’t mutual.

  ‘By God, Oswald. Is this story true?’ he said, grasping me by the shoulders. He looked strained and jumpy, as if he needed a drink. ‘You found an injured girl in the forest and then chased her into a river?’

  ‘It was Agnes Wheeler,’ I answered softly, aware that the girl with red hair was creeping closer, no doubt with the intention of eavesdropping on our conversation. ‘She was terrified,’ I added. ‘Somebody had attacked her.’

  ‘I only sent you out to find some herbs,’ he replied, dropping his hands from my shoulders and rolling his eyes in exasperation. ‘When you didn’t return, I thought you’d disappeared. Just like Brother Merek.’

  I was about to answer when Peter suddenly turned on our red-haired spy. By this point the girl had crept up behind us and was practically touching my habit. ‘This is nothing to do with you, Rose Brunham,’ he boomed. ‘Get out of here. Go on!’ For a moment the girl stood her ground, locking her eyes insolently with Peter’s until she finally retreated, wandering slowly back to Beatrice Wheeler’s cottage – no doubt to immediately repeat our conversation to the other women.

  Once we were certain that she was out of earshot, Peter turned back to me. ‘How, in the name of Christ and all the saints, did you get yourself involved in such trouble?’

  ‘I was only trying to help Agnes,’ I answered. ‘But she wouldn’t listen to me. It was as if she didn’t know me.’ I felt the tears welling now and I was unable to stop them.