The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  It did not take long, for this was only a shallow grave. When I first hit an obstacle, I put the spade to one side and then brushed away the earth to uncover a hand. The skin was grey, tinged with purple. The flesh was bloated – swollen like the leather of a sodden glove. The hand belonged to a man, given its size, but that was all I could tell – so I picked the spade up again and dug away more soil, now digging furiously until I reached the face of the corpse.

  He had been buried with his jaw falling open, his mouth was now full of soil. His eyes were already sunken into their sockets, and he exuded the full pungent stench of decomposition, but this was still a very welcome sight. The face that I looked upon did not belong to my beloved tutor, Brother Peter. This was Ranulf Sawyer.

  I climbed out of the grave and lay down onto the soil for a moment to catch my breath. At first I felt overpowering relief – my feelings of dread turned immediately to joy – before they changed again. I had been convinced that Sawyer was the killer, but how could that be true, now that Sawyer was dead himself? Given the progression of Sawyer’s decay – the colour of his skin and the swelling of his flesh, I guessed that he had been dead for a number of days – which meant he could not have taken Maud.

  But there was something else that troubled me. This was a Christian grave. Sawyer had been hastily buried, but he had still been placed in the correct east–west orientation, to rise facing the coming of Christ on the Day of Judgment. This burial had to be Peter’s work, which meant that my tutor must have come here after all and found Sawyer’s body. Which begged the question – where was Peter now, and why had he not returned to the monastery after making this discovery?

  I rose to my feet again and forced myself to look down into the grave, knowing that I needed to examine Sawyer’s corpse before I refilled this pit with soil. The flies were already buzzing about the hole, drawn to this pit by the smell of decay. I wondered, fleetingly, if it were possible that Sawyer had simply died, and naturally the thought of plague came to mind. I found a long stick and used it to pull back Sawyer’s cloak, where the true cause of his death was immediately plain to see. There were no buboes or patches of blackened flesh at the tops of his legs and nestled into his armpits. Instead there was a wound to his upper chest. The clean and deadly mark of a dagger.

  * * *

  I threw soil back onto the body and then found a nearby stream to wash away the smell of death from my skin. As I splashed cold water onto my face, I forced myself to dissect this mystery again. I had been wrong about Sawyer. He wasn’t a murderer and a rapist. He was nothing better than a grave robber – taking items of value from dead bodies and giving them to a girl that he admired. And if I had been wrong about Sawyer, then I had also been wrong about Rose as well. If she were not this man’s accomplice, then she must have been abducted along with Maud. This time the man had taken two women at once.

  I splashed water onto my face once again as if this would shock my senses into action. Who had killed Sawyer and why now? I had to think. Think! I reached down into the stream again, and as my hands found the cold water I had the answer. Sawyer had been murdered to guarantee his silence. After all, the man had been claiming to know the whereabouts of the women’s bodies – bodies from which he stole valuable items. And when had this thieving first come to light… at the meeting we had held at Maud’s house.

  I started to pace around Sawyer’s camp, walking faster and faster as I tried to corral my thoughts. John Roach had forced his way into that meeting, where he’d learnt about Sawyer and the stolen bracelet. Roach had not only followed me to the edge of the village on his white palfrey, but he’d also followed me into the forest. I’d seen his horse in the distance and then assumed that I’d lost him by hiding in the trees – but perhaps I hadn’t after all? I had assumed that it was Sawyer who clubbed me so soundly on the back of my head and left me for dead, but it could just as well have been Roach, for I never saw my attacker’s face.

  I felt that low sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. That wave of nausea that descends when a truly unpleasant truth finally reveals itself. I should have suspected John Roach before – for there were so many signs that I’d missed. Roach had made no attempts to look for the missing women of Stonebrook, instead claiming that they had run away to London. He’d tried to frustrate my investigation, and he’d even tried to blame the crimes on me. If all of this evidence were not damning enough, he was a man with a ferocious contempt for the women of Stonebrook – to the extent that he was known to them as the Cockroach.

  I ran back to find my horse, swung myself into my saddle and set off. There might be plague in Stonebrook, but that’s where I hoped to find John Roach. If he had taken Maud and Rose, then there was a chance that I could still find them both alive.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Somershill, November 1370

  Mother sat up straight in bed and threw an arm towards the window. ‘There’s a man out there,’ she shouted. ‘He’s trying to get in.’

  I looked up instinctively, though her claim could hardly be true. We were high up in the house, with a sheer drop outside the window. ‘There’s nobody there, Mother,’ I said, after walking over to the window in order to reassure her. ‘Stop worrying.’

  She wasn’t comforted by my words. ‘I saw him,’ she said, her face pale with terror. ‘Look again, Oswald!’

  I reluctantly turned back to the window and duly found nothing at my second inspection. The window was free of any intruders, though something did catch my eye in the distance. It was Filomena, riding away from the house, in the direction of Tonbridge. It was late in the afternoon, and she was wearing her fur-lined cloak, which struck me as unusual. I might have left the room to inquire from the servants about her reason for leaving, but Mother soon caught my attention again.

  ‘Is he there?’ she said. ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘No, Mother,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’

  Her face knotted in panic. ‘But look, Oswald!’ she screamed. ‘He’s there right now, trying to climb in. He wants to attack me.’

  I pulled the drapes across her bedstead on the side closest to the window and then returned to her side, where she clung onto my arm with cold and clammy fingers. I could see that this was a genuine terror. She believed, with full sincerity, that there was an intruder at the window, when there had been nothing there at all. Not even a bird or a shadow to cause this illusion.

  I smoothed the hair on her head, and spoke softly, as I used to speak to Hugh, when he’d woken from a nightmare as a small boy. Once awake, Hugh had always been able to recognise the truth – that his sleeping mind had been playing tricks on him. Mother was not able to make this distinction, however, and this was very saddening for me. Suddenly I found myself grieving for the old Mother. The woman who was obstinate and difficult in order to get attention. The woman who told outlandish stories to prompt a reaction. The woman who played one member of the family off against the other, in order to cause mischief. Unfortunately that woman was slipping away in front of my very eyes. Mother genuinely believed that she had seen a man at the window, and I could not persuade her otherwise.

  I felt her forehead and found that she was sweating, so I called for the maid to join us from her station outside of the door. I was concerned by Mother’s fever and wanted to know if the girl had helped her to the chamber pot recently. The maid informed me that her water was dark and foul-smelling, which meant that she needed to drink more liquids. When I pulled at the skin on the back of Mother’s hand, it was wrinkled and dry.

  I stepped aside at this point, and let the maid try to feed Mother with a tisane of rosemary and ginger. But Mother soon became aggressive and difficult, and threw the drink to the floor in a fit of frustration, accusing the girl of trying to poison her. I sent for some mead after this, which proved to be the right decision, since the sweetness was comforting and soothed Mother’s nerves immediately. Now that she was calmer, I sat beside her and held her hand, while Gilbert and the maid spoke
in low tones in the passageway – predicting that Mother was certain to die at any moment.

  I leant over to whisper into Mother’s ear. ‘Can you hear me?’ I said.

  At first my words met with silence, and I was about to release her hand when she tightened her fingers. ‘Yes, Oswald,’ she said.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I’m dying,’ she said faintly. ‘I know it. But I still have one night left in me. Don’t listen to what they’re saying.’

  ‘Can you hear them?’ I asked, glancing over towards the door to see that it was only slightly ajar. In spite of her grave illness, Mother retained her amazing powers of perception.

  ‘Yes, of course I can,’ she said, slipping her hand from mine. ‘I haven’t lost all use of my senses. I still know when somebody is talking about me.’

  I paused for a moment, wondering at this sudden lucidity. ‘Can you see anybody at the window now?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she snapped. ‘How could there be anybody at the window? We’re nearly in the roof.’ She scraped a thin laugh. ‘Goodness me, Oswald,’ she said. ‘Sometimes your imagination runs wild.’

  ‘Shall I leave you to sleep?’ I asked, gratified to see that her contrariness had returned.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Soon I will be asleep forever. Don’t leave me now. I want you to finish your story,’ she said. ‘While I still have the energy to listen.’ She sighed. ‘The Reaper is coming for me tonight, Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no point in denying it any longer. He’s in the courtyard, but soon he’ll be at the door.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve seen him off before, Oswald. Oh yes. I’ve hidden from him enough times to know when he’s lurking. Each time I had a child, he sat on the end of the bed, leering over me like a scavenger. Sometimes he has sent an ague, other times the sweating sickness. Sometimes the dropsy or a colic. Even a fever or a bloody flux. But each time I’ve evaded him, and sent him away.’ She sniffed away a tear. ‘But now he has me in his sights, Oswald. He comes for me tonight. I cannot refuse him again.’

  ‘Shall I fetch the priest, Mother?’

  ‘No, no,’ she frowned. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But he should read you the Last Rites,’ I said. ‘If you think that death is near.’

  ‘But I cannot die yet,’ she said, patting her chest, allowing me to hear the folded letter crinkling beneath her chemise.

  Our eyes locked for a moment, before I sat down with a sigh. ‘Can you remember where we were?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You suspected that man, the Constable. John Roach.’

  ‘So you were listening, then?’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I was.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Kent, June 1349

  I galloped into Stonebrook to find the main street deserted. It was so eerie that I reined in my horse to a walk, progressing slowly past rows of silent houses. Occasionally I heard a voice behind a closed door, or saw the odd, fleeting shadow at a window, but my only companions outside were a pack of starving dogs that were squabbling over the carcass of a dead crow – each attempting to grab the limp, bloodied remains of the bird and then disappear into a side alley with their prize. I kicked my horse on, soon arriving at John Roach’s house, where a loose cow was greedily attacking a tussock of grass on the verge. I dismounted, shooed the creature away and then thumped at the door.

  A short, agitated woman appeared immediately – peering out into the street, as if I might have had a companion with me. When she saw that I was alone, she gave a huff and then waved me inside. ‘Come along then. Come along. I’ve been waiting for you for days.’

  I was confused by this welcome. ‘I’m Brother Oswald,’ I told her. ‘A novice from Kintham Abbey. I’m looking for John Roach.’

  She gave another huff. ‘A novice,’ she said, now casting her eyes over my head to see that I was not yet tonsured. ‘Oh well,’ she sighed. ‘You’ll have to do, I suppose.’ She started to wave again. ‘He’s in here. So hurry up. Come along.’

  I duly stepped into the house and followed her down a thin passageway, until we came to a door at the other end. She stopped here and turned to me. ‘You do know how to do it, don’t you?’ she whispered, putting her hand onto the latch.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Hear a last confession, of course,’ she said, creasing her brow into a frown. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Roach is dying?’ I said in surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Didn’t they tell you? He’s very ill. I sent a boy to fetch a priest from the monastery.’ She gave a long sigh. ‘I’m afraid that my husband has a lot to confess, Brother Oswald. So I hope you know what you’re doing?’ She opened the door before I could answer. ‘Come along,’ she said. ‘In you go.’ When I didn’t move, she caught hold of my arm and propelled me over the threshold. ‘If you’d taken any longer, then the poor man would be dead.’

  * * *

  The door slammed behind me and I found myself in a small, dark bedchamber with a single window. John Roach was lying on the bed in the corner, with his back to me. His head was bowed forward and his limbs were drawn up into his torso, as if he were a child, curled up and asleep in his crib. There was a foul smell to the air – sickly and overpowering, and I felt the urge to retreat immediately back to the passageway, though I also felt sure that Roach’s wife would be waiting there, ready to shove me back inside the room, should I try to leave.

  And so I lifted my chemise over my nose and slowly approached the bed, my sense of dread increasing with each step. Daylight flooded through the window, shedding its slanting rays over Roach’s stricken body. I could see immediately that he was dying of plague. I had heard the tales of this sickness, but this was the first time that I had seen its true horror in person. Sores bulged at Roach’s neck like small, purple orbs. His shock of white hair was stuck to his head in a sweaty mat, and his fingers and the end of his nose were black – as if the man had dipped his face and hands in tar.

  I gave a cough that prompted Roach to turn over and open a swollen eye. ‘What do you want, de Lacy?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I understand that you need to make a last confession,’ I replied, cupping my hands over my nose.

  ‘I’m not speaking to you,’ he said. ‘Go back and get me a real priest.’

  ‘Nobody else is coming,’ I replied. ‘It’s me or nothing.’

  He gave a long whine and then closed his eyes again. ‘Just give me the sacraments,’ he whispered. ‘And then piss off.’

  I took a small step closer. ‘What’s the first sin you’re going to confess to, Roach?’ I asked. ‘Murdering Ranulf Sawyer, or taking the women?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no point lying to me,’ I said. ‘Not now.’

  He managed a thin laugh that soon shifted to a cough. ‘What are you talking about? You foolish coxcomb.’

  I didn’t respond to the insult. ‘You followed me into the forest, didn’t you?’ I said instead. ‘When I went to speak to Sawyer. You wanted to know what he would tell me.’

  Roach groaned. ‘What?’

  ‘When Sawyer offered to take me to the dead bodies, you attacked me. Then you went back later to kill him.’

  Roach squeezed out a thin laugh. ‘Have you lost your senses?’

  I could feel my anger rising. ‘I know you abducted the women, Roach,’ I said. ‘I know you’re guilty, so just tell me what you’ve done with Maud Woodstock and Rose Brunham. Don’t die with their lives on your conscience as well.’

  ‘How would I know where to find that pair of strumpets?’ he said. ‘I’ve been trapped in this room for days?’ He waved a blackened finger towards the hall. ‘Ask my wife.’

  I retreated to the door, lifted the latch and then opened it a fraction. Roach’s wife was seated at the other end of the passageway.

  ‘That was quick,’ s
he said nervously. ‘Is it all done?’

  I ignored this question. ‘How long has your husband been ill?’ I asked.

  She frowned at me. ‘Why?’

  ‘I said. How long has he been ill?’

  She smarted at my manner. ‘John took to his bed four days ago,’ she told me. ‘As soon as he came down with a stiffness and fever.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he hasn’t left the house during that time?’

  She screwed up her nose at this question. ‘He’s got the Plague, Brother Oswald,’ she said. ‘Where would he be going?’

  I closed the door, and took stock for a moment. I knew she was telling me the truth – which meant that I was wrong… Again. Roach couldn’t have taken Maud and Rose. He couldn’t be the killer I was hunting. I nearly left immediately in disappointment, but then Roach called to me from his bed. ‘Want to know what’s happened to those whores?’ he rasped. ‘Then ask that priest.’

  ‘Which priest?’

  ‘The one you keep company with.’

  ‘Brother Peter?’ I said. ‘What’s he got to do with this?’

  Roach gave a long, guttural cough, which ended as a thin spittle of blood waved over his chin. He turned to face me. His eyes were bloodshot, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. ‘I’ve seen him,’ he said. ‘Creeping about behind Maud Woodstock’s house. Following her and that other whore out of the village.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Couple of days ago.’

  I stood back – puzzled at this news. ‘How would you know?’ I asked, once I’d gathered my thoughts. ‘You haven’t left this room.’