The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  ‘And you believe that points the finger at me, do you?’ said Peter, wearily shaking his head. ‘After all the love and care that I’ve given you during the last ten years. You still believe that I am capable of such crimes? Have I not proved myself to you, Oswald?’

  ‘You’ve proven yourself to be a drunkard and a liar,’ I said. ‘Why not a killer as well?’

  This accusation riled him. He strode back to the door of the cottage, lifted the bar and flung open the door, kicking Maud out of the way as he strode inside. She curled herself into a ball – her eyes squinting as the light invaded the chamber again. I followed Peter to find him delving into a dark corner of the cottage as he picked something up from the floor.

  ‘You want to see the truth about this priest, do you?’ he said, holding a dirty black garment aloft.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘This is Brother Merek’s habit, Oswald. Stolen from his dead body.’

  I froze – thinking back to Merek’s corpse – shoved down the back of the pile and dressed only in his hair shirt.

  ‘Does he wear this?’ said Peter, swinging the habit into Maud’s face.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied, pressing herself back against the wall to escape Peter’s attentions. ‘I’ve never seen that tunic in my life.’

  Peter dangled the garment in front of her nose. ‘It’s easy to lull a woman into a sense of security, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘If she believes that she’s talking to a priest.’

  ‘Get away from me,’ she spat, which only caused him to push the cloth further into her face.

  ‘I imagine Agnes was easily lured into this cottage by a man of God, wasn’t she?’ Peter said. ‘Or did it amuse you both? To commit your sins in this attire?’

  Maud wriggled towards me in desperation. ‘Please, Oswald, don’t be fooled by this story. I had nothing to do with any of this. This is all lies.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind if we wait here to prove it,’ said Peter, dropping Merek’s habit to the floor.

  Maud stopped wriggling. ‘What?’

  ‘He’ll turn up,’ said Peter. ‘Sooner or later.’

  ‘Who will turn up?’ said Maud. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your lover, of course. The killer.’

  Maud cast her eyes to mine. ‘Please, Oswald,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what he means. Please. Just get me out of here. I can’t bear it any longer.’

  Peter put a hand against the wall and leant over Maud. ‘Of course he’ll turn up. He thinks that there’s a girl here waiting for him, doesn’t he?’

  ‘This is absurd,’ said Maud, shaking her head in disbelief, as Peter found the length of rope that I’d pulled from her wrists. ‘Do something, Oswald!’ she screamed, trying to pull her hands from Peter’s grasp as he went to re-tie her bindings. ‘For Christ’s sake. Please. Don’t let him do this to me again.’

  I hung back, paralysed, unable to act as Peter pulled the gag around Maud’s mouth, stuffing some of the cloth between her lips.

  ‘And if this man doesn’t appear?’ I asked.

  ‘He will come, Oswald,’ said Peter with conviction. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Somershill, November 1370

  I went to continue my story, but we were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, before Clemence marched into the room without waiting for me to answer. On seeing our visitor, Mother pulled at my sleeve and whispered. ‘Tell her to go away, Oswald,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to talk to her. Not at the moment.’

  ‘What is it, Clemence?’ I asked loudly. ‘Mother is too tired to receive any more visitors.’

  ‘I’m not here for Mother,’ she said, with less umbrage than I might have expected. ‘It’s you I want to speak to, Oswald,’ she said. ‘In private.’

  Mother bristled at this. If there were anything more likely to annoy her, even on her deathbed, it was the idea of being excluded from a conversation. ‘I’m sure that you can speak in front of me,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Clemence. ‘This is for Oswald’s ears alone.’

  My sister folded her arms and glared at me, until I joined her by the door, whereupon she pulled me into the passageway. ‘This is not Mother’s concern,’ she whispered.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, lifting my hood, as it was much colder in this passageway after the warm fug of the bedroom.

  Clemence cleared her throat and seemed uncomfortable for once. ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said. ‘About Filomena.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  Clemence hesitated again, taking a moment to scratch her nose. It was strange to see her behaving so awkwardly, and it made me feel uneasy. ‘We believe that she’s run away.’

  For a moment I wanted to laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh come on, Oswald,’ she said. ‘You must have realised what’s been going on? Between Filomena and Sir John?’

  I no longer wanted to laugh. ‘You’re saying that Filomena has run away with that man?’ But then I thought back to the sight of my wife, cantering away across the fields. ‘No. That’s not true,’ I said resolutely, pushing the memory away. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Clemence flashed her eyes at me. ‘Keep your voice down, Oswald. This is a very shameful matter. We don’t want the whole house to hear our business.’ She drew closer. ‘Now you have to listen to me. I’ve been given this information by Henry himself. I have no reason to disbelieve my own son.’

  ‘So this story is Henry’s invention, is it?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ Clemence cleared her throat. ‘Henry came to me today, after he saw Filomena riding away from the house at dusk. It gave him great pain to relay this story. You know how little he likes to speak. Especially to me.’

  I folded my arms. ‘He’s making it up.’

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’ said Clemence.

  I hesitated. ‘Because he’s in love with Filomena, that’s why. He’s jealous of her closeness to Sir John.’

  My sister rolled her eyes to the heavens. ‘Goodness me. So what? So are most of the men in this household. The woman exudes a peculiar attraction to the opposite sex.’ Clemence straightened her veil and pursed her lips. ‘Personally I cannot understand it. She is a little… obvious.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ I asked. ‘This piece of information that Henry has passed on?’

  Clemence lowered her voice, rubbing her hand under the band of her wimple before wiping a thin film of sweat from her brow. ‘Henry overheard the pair of them whispering in Filomena’s tongue.’

  ‘You mean Venetian?’

  ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘Of course I mean Venetian.’ Clemence held up a hand to prevent me from asking the next, inevitable question. ‘And before you say anything, Henry has been very well educated. His Latin and Greek allow him to understand many foreign tongues.

  I wanted to laugh. Henry’s Latin had been so poor that he’d struggled to read many of the most basic texts at Oxford, and had been forced to quit his studies after a couple of years. The idea that he was listening in to a private conversation between my wife and a house guest – a conversation that had apparently been held in Venetian – was bordering on the ludicrous. However, I decided to play along.

  ‘Well then,’ I said. ‘Out with it. What did Henry hear?’

  Clemence eyed me distrustfully, but decided to continue. ‘Henry says that the pair were discussing their plan to elope together. That Filomena would meet Sir John at an inn near Tonbridge. After this they would make their way to Rochester, and then follow Watling Street to Dover.’

  ‘Dover indeed?’ I said. ‘Goodness me.’

  Clemence frowned at my tone. ‘You must take this seriously, Oswald. Your wife is absconding with her lover. They intend to escape to Venice together.’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ I replied. ‘A complete fabrication. Filomena would never leave me. Henry is mistaken.’

  Clemence seized m
y arm. Her expression was pained, desperate even. ‘Listen to me, Oswald. It’s not just Henry’s story that concerns me. I’ve seen what’s been happening between the pair myself. I cannot speak Venetian, and nor have I been listening at doors, but it’s still as plain as a pikestaff.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

  She huffed in response. ‘Of course you do. You spend too long with our mother and not enough time with your wife.’

  ‘That’s because Mother is dying.’

  ‘Yes, but that could take ages, Oswald. You know what a tough old goose the woman is. And yet, while you hide yourself away in this room, that clotpole, Sir John, a man whom you invited yourself into this house, has charmed your beautiful wife with his tall tales and amorous attentions.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘At least you had the good sense to ask him to leave. Because, if I had to listen to one more tale about monsters who cooled off under the shade of their own giant feet, or creatures that ate their own children because they couldn’t be bothered to go hunting, then I would have thrown him out myself.’

  She suddenly grasped my hand. ‘Filomena has been captivated with his talk of Venice. Can’t you see that? She feels sentimental for her old home, and Sir John has played on that. Describing that Gomorrah in fulsome detail every night, and exciting her feelings for the place.’ She squeezed her fingers into mine, an act of affection that I had rarely ever received before from my sister. ‘Filomena’s head has been turned, Oswald. But it’s not too late to turn it back. Ride after her now. Tell her to forget about this foolish man and his foolish tales. Tell her to come back to Somershill. She belongs here. Not in Venice.’

  ‘Is this the truth, Clemence?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘Why would I lie about something like this?’

  ‘Because you don’t like Filomena,’ I answered.

  She dropped my hand. ‘That is nonsense, Oswald. I find her difficult to understand, that’s all. And not just because she comes from another country.’ Clemence paused to take a breath. ‘Her behaviour has always been slightly questionable, in my opinion. The tight-fitting clothes she chooses to wear. And all that ornamentation in her hair. But this is a new low point. This will bring great shame on our family, if you do not go and find her.’

  ‘So that’s your true motivation?’ I said. ‘You’re not worried about my marriage. You are just afraid of our reputation.’

  ‘So what if it is?’ she answered defiantly. ‘What’s wrong with wanting to maintain the standing of the de Lacy family? Now, for the sake of your son and my son, and the name of this family, ride out of here and find her.

  I looked away, feeling sick and then angry. How dare Filomena do this to me? Now. When my mother was about to die. ‘If she wants to go,’ I said. ‘Then let her.’

  Clemence drew back in surprise. ‘You don’t mean that, Oswald. It’s nothing more than bravado. Of course you want her to stay. You love the foolish woman.’

  I hesitated. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘Tomorrow might be too late. Go now.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I have other matters to attend to this night.’

  ‘What other matters?’ snapped Clemence, unable to hide her anger. ‘What could possibly be more important than this?’ When I didn’t answer immediately, she continued. ‘Are you too proud to chase after a woman? Is that it?’ She puffed her lips with scorn. ‘You men and your ridiculous pride. When will you understand that you only hurt yourselves with such stupidity.’ She grabbed my hands again. ‘Go after her, Oswald. Go now. Before it’s too late!’

  ‘I can’t,’ I insisted, once again pulling my hands away. ‘There’s something I need to finish. If I don’t do this tonight, then I’ll never have the chance again.’

  Clemence glanced towards the bedroom door. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Filomena can wait until tomorrow. But Mother can’t.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right,’ she replied, as she turned on her heels and marched away. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all.’

  * * *

  I returned to my station at Mother’s deathbed to finish this business, for I knew that we were very close to the end. She looked back at me with tired, sunken eyes, but there was still life in there. Just about.

  ‘I heard you arguing with Clemence,’ she whispered. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I answered. ‘There’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Then you will stay and end your story?’ she asked, managing to pat the letter that still lay beneath the neckline of her chemise.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Right to the end?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. Right to the end.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Kent, June 1349

  We lay in wait for Maud’s accomplice for the rest of the day – Peter watching the door of the cottage like a dog waiting to be fed. During those long hours, we heard nothing from outside, other than the wind through the trees, the ringing calls of the buzzards, and the distant drill of a woodpecker. Inside, the noises were more ordinary – especially the sound of rumbling stomachs. Peter and Maud hadn’t eaten for at least two days, and there was no food in this hovel. Every hour or so, Peter removed Maud’s gag, so that she could take a drink of water at least – but he always replaced it quickly, because she used each and every one of these opportunities to plead her innocence and beg for release. I kept my eyes from hers – not knowing whether to feel guilty or angry.

  The evening eventually bled into night, as the three of us remained seated in our dark refuge, still waiting for this mysterious man to appear. Though it was a summer’s night, there was a coolness to the air – a chill that caught at the back of my throat and filled my lungs with its icy breath. I pulled up my hood and fell asleep eventually, but woke suddenly when feeling a kick at my leg. I opened my eyes to find that Maud had wriggled across the floor to lie next to me – her face against mine, our lips nearly meeting. I rubbed my eyes and saw the dawn light creeping into the cottage through the gaps in the rafters above. Outside, the first of the birds were singing – though their chorus was not yet loud enough to drown out Peter’s snoring.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whispered, pulling back my hood to see that Maud had managed to loosen the gag from her mouth. It now hung about her neck.

  ‘Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘Please. Don’t give me away. Don’t wake Peter.’ She looked at me with pleading eyes. ‘Just hear me out. Before he wakes.’

  I looked back into her face. ‘What is there to say?’ I asked.

  ‘I want you to know that I don’t blame you for any of this,’ she whispered. ‘Peter has tricked you with his lies.’ I went to answer but she moved closer again, and now I could almost feel the vibration of her lips against mine. ‘I’ve been lying awake all night thinking about this.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ve worked out what happened, Oswald. So please, just listen to me. It was Rose who led me here. Not the other way around.’ She paused to sigh. ‘I shouldn’t have followed the girl this far into the forest. I realise that now. But Rose claimed to know where to find Pestilence wort, and I felt duty-bound to go with her. Especially after the promises that I made to all the women at our meeting.’

  ‘Why would Rose bring you to this cottage?’ I asked.

  ‘Because Peter told her to, Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘That’s why. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Peter?’

  Her breath hot against my skin. ‘He gave himself away when he accused me of picking out girls for some lover. He was talking about his own relationship with Rose. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It was Rose’s idea that we should look inside this cottage. Not mine. As soon as we opened the door, Peter jumped out on us.’

  ‘Rose told me that she fought Peter off.’

  ‘That’s another lie, Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘The girl disap
peared as soon as Peter grabbed me.’

  ‘But Rose seemed very upset when I found her.’

  ‘That’s because she’s terrified of Peter,’ replied Maud. ‘He has some sort of hold over the girl. I think he uses Rose to find women from the village. The poor ones. The girls that nobody seems to care about.’

  I went to rebut this theory, but stopped short. Peter’s condemnation of Rose had always troubled me. He didn’t usually pass comment on the villagers, and yet he had repeatedly made the point of calling this girl a liar. And then I remembered Rose’s last words to me, when we had parted in the forest. The manner in which she had begged me not to mention her name to Peter.

  Maud continued. ‘I think the girl has been under his spell for many months.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied weakly. ‘It all just sounds so unbelievable.’

  She drew back a little, staring at me with those large blue eyes. Even in this dusty morning light they shone out with the colour of a still, summer’s sea. Exquisitely clear and so very, very lovely. ‘And yet you can believe the very worst of me?’ she whispered. ‘You can believe that I was luring girls into the forest for the pleasure of some man?’

  I hesitated, not knowing how to answer.

  ‘Where is he, then?’ she asked me, her face darkening for a moment. ‘This man. This lover, to whom I’m so devoted? Peter has had me locked inside this cottage for at least two days and this man has yet to appear.’ She paused, drawing her face near to mine again. ‘He’s an invention, Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘A lie. A diversion designed to hide Peter’s real purpose in locking me in here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You saved my life by coming here to find me,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see, Oswald? Otherwise I would be dead now – my body lying in that gully you’ve spoken of. Alongside all those other poor women whom Peter has tortured and killed for his own pleasure.’ She moved closer again – so near that I could smell the warm, spicy scent of her skin. ‘There is no man coming here,’ she said. ‘There is no mysterious lover.’ And then she kissed me – her lips hot and urgent on mine, and all of my uncertainties instantly melted away.