The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  * * *

  When we retired to bed that night, Filomena turned her back to me and pretended to be asleep when I touched her shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I whispered, as if I didn’t know.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied resentfully.

  ‘Is it because I asked Sir John to get to the point?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ When she didn’t answer, I foolishly added, ‘I thought his story was rather boring.’

  ‘Boring?’ she echoed, turning over to face me. ‘I can tell you what boring means, Oswald,’ she said with a mocking laugh. ‘It is winter in this castle.’

  ‘You have my company.’

  Filomena puffed her disdain. ‘You are constantly at your mother’s side, Oswald. I never see you.’

  ‘Mother’s dying,’ I said. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

  I thought this comment might have won the argument, but Filomena merely brushed it aside. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad for me, if you hadn’t sent Hugh and Sandro away. And left me with nobody but Sir John.’

  I groaned inwardly, as this was the same argument that we’d had so many times before. ‘Hugh had to leave for Oxford. He’s a nobleman and must be educated.’

  ‘But what about Sandro,’ she retorted. ‘He was just a servant. You could have kept him here.’

  ‘Sandro begged to go to London, Filomena. It wasn’t fair to keep him at Somershill any longer.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have asked to leave,’ she grumbled. ‘It was so ungrateful, after all you did for him.’

  ‘Sandro gave me years of loyal service.’

  ‘Loyal service?’ she puffed. ‘Who was Sandro before you found him? Nothing but a ragged orphan living on the streets of Venice.’ She harrumphed. ‘You should have left him there to starve!’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Filomena,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘No,’ she said at length. ‘Of course I don’t.’ Even though it was dark, I could hear that she was holding back the tears. ‘I just miss Sandro so much, Oswald. He was my last tie to Venice.’

  I kissed her lips and promised that we would go up to London to visit Sandro in the spring, as soon as the days lengthened. This seemed to please her and she soon fell asleep, but I found it harder to settle. All of this nonsense about Sir John was Mother’s doing. She had planted the seeds of enmity, but I had stupidly allowed them to grow. There was no reason to be jealous of Sir John. He was simply indulging Filomena’s love for her home city.

  And so, I made up my mind. I would not react to any more such tales – no matter how goading they might be. Tomorrow I would return to Mother’s side and continue my own story without such interruptions. I would make my confession, and we would part with our account in balance. I would seek her forgiveness, and she would grant it. The letter would be mine, and then I could destroy it forever.

  Chapter Eight

  Kent, June 1349

  After leaving Maud Woodstock’s house, I returned immediately to Kintham, slipping back into my isolation cell without being seen. Nobody seemed to have noticed my absence, but I wondered how much longer I would be able to enjoy this privilege. In truth, I was not looking forward to returning to the rigidities of monastic life, after the freedom of recent days.

  * * *

  Peter appeared not long after my return, clutching a small hessian bag that contained my evening meal – a slice of stale bread and a square of cheese so small and hard that we might have scored holes into each face and used it as a dice. Seeing this offering, I thought again about the meaty pie that I had refused at Maud’s house, and my enthusiasm for this way of life diminished just a little bit further.

  ‘This is the best I could do,’ said Peter, seeing my reaction to his parcel. ‘The kitchens are saving supplies for the feast of Pentecost.’

  I thanked him for bringing it anyway, and then placed the bag under my bed. I would save it until the middle of the night, when a hungry person will eat anything – even such unpalatable morsels as these.

  Peter looked at me quizzically. ‘I thought you’d want to eat immediately,’ he said. ‘You haven’t had anything since breakfast.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I replied.

  ‘Are you still unwell, then?’ he asked, taking a seat on the bed next to me – groaning as he bent his knees and lowered his backside onto the thin mattress.

  ‘No.’

  He looked me up and down, and then retrieved his leather flask from his scrip, taking a long sip of the brandy, before he licked his lips with a satisfying sigh.

  Now that Peter had started drinking, I decided that it was a good time to confess to my outing. His mood sometimes softened with a drink – at least to begin with anyway. ‘I went to Stonebrook today,’ I said in an off handed way, as if visiting this village were a regular arrangement. ‘I was given some food there.’

  Peter drew back in consternation. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said that I went to Stonebrook.’

  ‘But you were supposed to stay in the monastery, Oswald.’ His cheeks instantly reddened. ‘What on earth were you doing there?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to the villagers,’ I admitted. ‘About Agnes Wheeler.’

  Peter’s mouth fell open for a moment. It seemed that my gamble about his mood had failed. In fact, Peter looked angrier than ever as he rose to his feet and paced up and down the room – his face screwed into a grimace and his hand gripping the neck of his leather flask.

  ‘You are such a fool, Oswald,’ he hissed. ‘I cannot believe you would flout the Abbot’s rules with such boldness. Did you not hear what he told us in the Chapter House? There is plague in Fallowsden. A deadly, uncontrollable plague.’

  ‘I saw nothing of it in Stonebrook,’ I answered. ‘Life was continuing as usual.’

  ‘Then you are even more stupid than I thought,’ he said, coming to a standstill in front of me. ‘Plague creeps up silently. It does not announce its arrival with the call of a bladder pipe. For all you know, the miasmas from Fallowsden could have already blown over to Stonebrook.’

  ‘Well, they haven’t,’ I replied. ‘Nobody is ill there. Nobody at all.’ After this confrontation we stared at one another until Peter finally drew back and muttered something under his breath about ignorant young men.

  ‘I learnt something of interest to my investigation today,’ I ventured, once certain that Peter’s temper had abated a little. ‘So I’m pleased that I went.’

  Peter gave a scornful laugh at this. ‘Your investigation?’ he repeated. ‘Whatever next? Who are you, then? The bishop’s summoner? I’ve never heard of such haughty presumption.’

  ‘Nobody else is interested in finding out the truth about Agnes and the other missing women, Brother Peter,’ I said sharply. ‘If I don’t investigate, then who will?’

  Peter went to answer, but stopped himself. Instead he heaved a long sigh and took a seat next to me on the bed again. ‘Look, Oswald,’ he said softly. ‘It’s extremely tragic that this poor girl died, but it wasn’t your fault. There is nothing that you can do to bring her back.’

  ‘I can try to find the truth,’ I replied. ‘Surely I owe Agnes that much?’

  He shook his head at this. ‘You must listen to me,’ he said. ‘I know that you mean well, but you are a novice on the verge of taking your vows. You must put your own feelings of guilt about this girl to one side and concentrate on your own future.’

  ‘But I thought you’d be pleased that I cared. I thought that you admired those men and women who sought out the truth? That’s what you’ve always taught me.’

  ‘Not when you put yourself in danger with such reckless acts,’ he said. ‘Not when plague is stirring. You must see that?’

  He tried to put a hand onto my arm, but I shrugged him away. ‘Leave me alone,’ I said, turning my shoulder to him. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. You’ve disappointed me, Peter.’

  The tactic worked perfectly. ‘So, come on then,’ he s
aid wearily. ‘What is it? This interesting piece of information? You may as well tell me?’

  I hesitated, knowing that Peter would find fault with my story as soon as he heard it. ‘I was told that Brother Merek was a frequent visitor to Stonebrook before he disappeared,’ I said. ‘Apparently he made a point of befriending the poorer women. Including the ones who are now missing.’

  Peter didn’t answer this. He just stared at me.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s interesting?’ I asked. Although I had half-expected this reaction, it still irritated me.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘We’re Benedictines, Oswald. We’re supposed to care for the poor.’

  ‘Yes. But not in that way.’

  ‘What way do you mean?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean, Brother Peter,’ I replied. ‘His friendship was unwelcome.’

  Peter knitted his brow into a frown. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked. ‘Was it that girl with the red hair? Rose Brunham? Because I’ve told you before about her… she is a notorious liar. You really shouldn’t believe anything that she has to say.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t her.’

  Peter cast his eyes over my face, trying to judge if I were telling the truth. ‘So, who was it, then?’ He gave a laugh. ‘I suppose it was Maud Woodstock, wasn’t it? With her striking eyes and proud manners. Oh yes,’ he sneered. ‘The attentions of a mere lay brother such as Brother Merek would certainly be most unwelcome to the likes of her.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told me,’ I snapped. ‘Only that I believe it’s true.’

  Peter took a long gulp of brandy and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘So, come on then. What’s your theory about Merek?’ he asked, leaning towards me and raising his eyebrows. His indignation had turned to amusement, which, if anything, I found even more riling. ‘You’ve obviously got one.’

  I refused to answer.

  Peter tutted and puffed his lips. ‘Then let me tell you,’ he said, poking a finger into my thigh. ‘You don’t believe that Brother Merek was attacked by bandits and murdered. Even though that’s the obvious explanation for his disappearance, given that nobody has heard from the poor man for over six weeks.’ He poked at my leg again. ‘You think that Brother Merek is hiding out somewhere in the forests of Kintham, picking off poor girls from the village of Stonebrook and murdering them for his own, depraved amusement.’

  I was briefly lost for words. ‘It could be true,’ I said at length. ‘Remember what Agnes said to me before she ran into the river. Keep away from me, priest.’

  ‘Of course it’s not true,’ said Peter, throwing up his arms in indignation. ‘Merek was the most devout of lay brothers. A genuine man of God. He would never commit such outrageous sins.’

  ‘Then why was he spending so much time with the women of Stonebrook?’ I said. ‘It seems very suspicious to me.’

  Peter growled at me. ‘Your theory is offensive and ridiculous, Oswald,’ he said. ‘I never want to hear it again.’

  ‘But how can you ignore this?’ I said. ‘There must be a link between Merek and the missing women.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, because…’ I stuttered.

  Peter shook his head vigorously. ‘You see. You can’t even explain it yourself. You’ve based your whole ridiculous theory on a coincidence, Oswald. Nothing more. It is a typical error of youth. You’ve taken two separate disappearances and conflated them to create your own fantasy.’

  ‘I have not imagined this,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Can you remember the teachings of William of Ockham, Oswald?’ he asked me.

  I shrugged in response.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘I know that Brother Thomas has encouraged you to read Ockham’s work, even though you barely attend any of his classes.’ He leant towards me, and I could see that his eyes were red and that his skin was dry and flaking. His breath smelt worse than ever at this proximity. ‘Remember what Ockham said. The explanation requiring the fewest assumptions is the most likely to be correct.

  ‘Meaning what?’ I said.

  ‘Meaning that your unlikely story is most unlikely to be true.’

  I tried to argue further, but the bell for Vespers rang out in the far distance. Peter stood up without thinking, for a monk must obey the horarium. His life is ruled by the tolling of bells.

  ‘Come along, Oswald,’ said Peter, stiffening his shoulders and heading for the door. ‘You’ve spent too long in this cell.’ He looked me up and down. ‘You are well enough to return to your duties now. And, in any case, I cannot leave you here alone any longer to flout the rules.’

  ‘So you’re not going to help me?’ I said.

  ‘With what?’ he asked.

  ‘My investigation into Brother Merek, of course.’

  He stopped by the door. ‘Oswald,’ he said solemnly. ‘Please listen to me, because I won’t say this again. There is absolutely nothing to investigate.’

  Chapter Nine

  I caused a stir when I appeared at Vespers that evening – though the other monks were supposed to be singing their canticles, rather than turning around to stare at me. When Peter noticed their reaction, he made a point of holding my arm as we walked up to the altar together. If the infirmarer of Kintham would touch me so willingly, then they could feel reassured that I didn’t pose any risk.

  After a day or so, my reappearance finally lost its novelty and I could travel about the cloisters without being remarked upon. And anyway, any curiosity and gossip about the state of my health was soon supplanted by a new topic of conversation. A white stag had been seen in the woodland about the monastery, treading through the undergrowth at a safe distance from the walls, but still close enough to be seen. According to many of the brothers, the stag was a sure sign that Christ himself was watching over Kintham in these troubling times. Whatever the stag signified – whether its presence were divine or natural – this was seen as uplifting news. Something to occupy the brothers’ thoughts and prayers, rather than the gathering clouds of plague.

  I used this time to continue my investigation into Merek, despite Peter’s attempts to warn me off. There was more than coincidence at play here. The disappearance of the women and the disappearance of Brother Merek were connected. I just needed to find out how.

  I had known Merek a little, since he had also worked under Brother Peter’s supervision – though he had tended to keep himself to himself. In truth, I had always found the man to be rather awkward and sullen, rather than the honourable man of God whom Peter had described to me. I needed to find out what the other brothers thought of Merek, so I managed to persuade (or should I say induce) Brother John, to tell me more about Merek’s earlier history at Kintham – before he had come to us in the infirmary. I must say John’s account of Merek did little to change my opinion of the man.

  According to John, Merek had started by working in the scriptorium when he first came to the Abbey as a lay brother – though his unsteady hand had soon vexed the provisioner to the point of exasperation. Merek was only supposed to be stretching and chalking the parchment in readiness for the scribes, but he had still managed to damage the precious skins. No matter how many of Merek’s mistakes were blamed upon Titivillus, the demon said to haunt scriptoria and cause the monks to spoil their holy work, Merek could not be allowed to wreck such expensive materials indefinitely. After being dismissed from this role, Merek had then been sent to the cellarer, the kitchener, and the sacrist – displaying no aptitude in any of these areas, until he had been passed on, at last, to Peter.

  From this point onwards I could continue Merek’s story myself, – though the man didn’t last long at the infirmary, as his clumsy fingers were unable to cut a clean incision, nor neatly sew a gaping wound. It was in the herb garden where Merek finally found his vocation. Thanks to Merek’s skills in cultivation, there were soon rows of healthy lavender, sage and dill, alongside the fennel, garlic and comfrey. The bays,
previously stunted and diseased, had been replanted and had grown into tall trees with abundant, glossy leaves. There was even an apricot tree clinging to a wall and producing fruit in most years, as long as there wasn’t a late frost.

  But there was more than an aptitude for gardening to Merek’s talents. He was also an expert at foraging in the forests – finding those herbs that cannot, or will not, grow, in a garden. The Wood Betony to purify the blood. The Mullein for voiding the chest of phlegm. The Shepherd’s Rod to cleanse the liver. For this reason, Merek had often been given permission to leave the monastery for many days at a time… but now I began to wonder if these long excursions had been entirely motivated by the search for herbs?

  Of course, Brother Merek had not been alone in seeking time outside of the Abbey, as the cloistered life could induce a suffocating melancholia in some of the brothers. Hearing confessions, or tending to the sick in the nearest village were popular excuses for an occasional escape. In addition, some brothers would regularly volunteer to make pilgrimages – anything that might release them from the monastery for a number of weeks. But Merek’s absences were more systematic than this. It seemed that he had managed to contrive a regular excuse to leave the monastery – which was suspicious in itself… but still not enough to specifically link him to the crimes.

  I still needed to know more about the man. And so, when Peter was busy letting the Abbot’s blood one afternoon – a treatment that the Abbot was now requesting at regular intervals – I made my way over to Merek’s old cell, in the hope of finding something in his room. Anything that might shed some more light onto his character. I couldn’t say exactly what I was looking for – but, in the absence of any other ideas, I felt it was worth a try.