The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Kent, July 1349

  Brother Thomas finally opened the gates of Kintham, once Peter had insisted on speaking to the Abbot. My tutor was blessed with many skills, and the ability to win an argument through a combination of persuasion and threat was his speciality. Peter’s contention that a monastery cannot function without its infirmarer when a plague is raging, was sufficient to persuade the Abbot to raise the portcullis. (That and Peter’s threat to spread salacious rumours about the Abbot’s enthusiasm for Syriac.)

  Peter went straight back to work as soon as he had washed and dressed the wound that William had inflicted upon his arm – as if the whole horrific episode had never happened. In fact he refused to talk to me about William and Maud’s crimes at all, and made it clear that the subject was closed between us. When I argued that we should write to the Sheriff or even inform the Abbott, Peter lost his temper. William had been right. Nobody would believe our story. And nobody would care about the deaths of a few village girls. Especially not now, when the Plague was wiping out whole villages. Above all we needed to think of our own safety in these coming months, as William was a formidable enemy. We needed to keep our mouths shut and try to return to our life as usual. We could only hope that William would leave us alone.

  But I could not return to my usual life so easily. Instead, I lay in bed for many days, my mood swinging between anger and melancholia, as Peter explained away my condition to the other brothers by pretending that I’d been attacked by bandits. He brought me tonics made of dandelion and horehound and even tried to encourage prayer. When I was sad and despairing of human nature, he suggested that I went out for a walk around the gardens, or groom one of the ponies… as if this would help? I felt contaminated by association. I had allowed William to befriend me during our time together at Somershill, flattered to have been noticed at last by my older brother. And I had fallen in love with Maud – allowing her beauty and grace to blind me to her true ugliness.

  * * *

  But I could not stay cooped up in my cell forever. Especially not when the monastery had shut itself off from the world and was preparing for plague. Eventually I found respite by returning to my old duties and chores in the infirmary, as there is something calming and restorative about a routine. But my fragile peace was not to last.

  I was boiling poppy heads one morning, making a light sedative for the old monk with the amputated leg, when Peter tapped me on the shoulder. ‘There’s somebody at the gate to see you,’ he said.

  I turned around, surprised at this news. ‘Who’s that?’

  Peter immediately put a hand over his mouth to deflect the odour of brandy on his breath. I was surprised he smelt so pungent this early in the day, and this caused me to feel nervous immediately. My suspicions were vindicated when I heard Peter’s reply. ‘It’s William,’ he told me.

  ‘William?’ I echoed. ‘My brother William?’ Peter nodded. ‘What’s he doing here?’ I said, feeling the blood drain from my face.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Peter. ‘The Abbot won’t let him past the gatehouse.’ He paused. ‘But I’ve spoken to him myself.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  Peter paused again. ‘He says that he wants to talk to you, Oswald.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Peter cleared his throat. ‘I think you should hear what he has to say.’

  Our raised voices had drawn the attention of a monk in a nearby bed, so I pulled Peter to one side. ‘My brother is a murderer,’ I whispered. ‘Why would I want to talk to him?’

  Peter sighed. ‘You won’t like me saying this, Oswald,’ he replied. ‘But it might be best to try to appease him.’ He forced a smile. ‘And I don’t know what other choice we have,’ he added. ‘Given the circumstances.’

  ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘I won’t do it.’

  Peter’s smile disappeared. ‘Perhaps he wants to ask your forgiveness?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ I said. ‘It’s more likely that he’s come here to kill me.’

  ‘He can’t harm you, Oswald,’ said Peter. ‘He’ll be one side of the portcullis. And you will stand on the other. I’ll wait nearby. Just in case he gets difficult.’ When I didn’t answer this, he added. ‘William would not risk attacking you here, Oswald. There would be too many witnesses.’

  I shook my head, still not convinced. ‘No. I won’t do it,’ I said adamantly, turning back to stir the poppies. ‘I never want to see him again.’

  ‘You must, Oswald,’ insisted Peter, now grasping me by the arm. ‘It would look bad if you refused to speak to your own brother.’ He leant forward to whisper softly into my ear. It was the tone he had used with me since I had been a boy. The encouraging, soothing voice that persuaded me to overcome an obstacle, or meet a new challenge. ‘Please, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Just see what he wants at the very least. We’re in a very difficult situation and it might help us to know William’s intentions.’ He paused. ‘That’s all I ask of you.’

  * * *

  Peter walked me to the portcullis and then stepped back a few yards, so that William and I were able to speak in private. A warm breeze was blowing through the tunnel of the gatehouse, sieved through the lattice of the wooden and metal bars.

  My brother was an arm’s length from me. His lupine eyes staring intently through the grille.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Even though there was a portcullis between us, I still felt vulnerable. As if he might poke a sword through one of the gaps and stab me in the chest. I made sure to keep a safe distance.

  His face relaxed into an insincere smile. ‘I’ve come to see how my little brother fares during this plague,’ he said. ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ I replied. ‘You’re here to scare me into silence.’

  He shrugged in response. ‘My leg is better,’ he remarked. ‘In case you were wondering.’

  ‘You’re a rapist and a murderer, William,’ I hissed, stepping nearer to the grille. ‘I don’t care about your leg.’

  This prompted him to laugh. ‘Oh come on, Oswald. It was hardly a crime. They were just village girls. Little ants.’

  ‘Ants?’ The word winded me. ‘And you were the giant, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he replied. ‘Well remembered.’

  ‘Just go away,’ I said. ‘You disgust me.’ I foolishly leant forward to utter these words, giving William the opportunity to reach through the grille and grasp my arm.

  ‘Listen to me, Oswald,’ he said, pulling me roughly against the bars. I could sense Brother Peter hovering behind me, but he didn’t come to my aid as he’d promised. My tutor was determined that I should hear my brother out.

  ‘Get off me,’ I spat.

  William’s teeth were clenched. ‘I am a giant, don’t you see? That’s what you need to appreciate.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I replied. ‘That’s a pathetic delusion. You’re just a man, like anyone else.’

  ‘No. I’m a giant,’ he repeated. ‘But so are you, Oswald de Lacy. We are cut from the same rock.’

  ‘I am nothing like you,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’

  He stared at me without blinking. At this close proximity I could see that he was agitated. Crazed even. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and his hair was wet and sticking to his head. I could smell the sweat on his skin. ‘I came here to tell you something,’ he said. ‘Something that you need to understand. As my brother. As a de Lacy who owes me allegiance.’

  With this warning, he released his grip, and though I contemplated running away, I kept my feet rooted to the spot and my eyes fixed upon his face. At some level I wanted to hear what William had to say.

  ‘Go on then,’ I mumbled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not like other men, Oswald,’ he said without a trace of embarrassment. ‘I’ve known I’m extraordinary since I was nine years old.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somethin
g happened to me at that age, Oswald,’ he replied. ‘Something that changed my life forever.’ He paused. ‘I’ve never explained this to anybody else. But I think you will understand. You, more than anybody else.’

  ‘Go on then,’ I said.

  His eyes suddenly glazed over, as if he wasn’t talking to anybody in particular. ‘I had climbed the north-west tower at Somershill,’ he said, ‘and I stood exactly where you and I spoke recently.’ He gave a short laugh at this. ‘It was the very same spot. As if the Fates had intervened and demanded that we have that conversation.’ He paused to push the hair from his forehead. ‘It was the usual type of day for me, as a nine-year-old boy. I was hiding from Father because he’d just beaten me again. I was full of shame and resentment. I felt worthless and angry. I even thought about throwing myself over the wall and falling to my death below. In fact, I would have done it, Oswald,’ he said. ‘I wanted to kill myself.’ He paused. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  I nodded. It did surprise me. I had never imagined that my brother might have contemplated suicide.

  ‘I climbed onto the wall and looked down at the ground below, imagining what death would feel like. Imagining the feeling as my head hit the hard soil and my skull smashed into pieces. But, as I stood there, I suddenly had the urge to look up instead of down. It was as if a voice whispered the idea into my ear and told me to do it. And then, as I looked out across the horizon, another feeling overtook me. It happened so suddenly, Oswald. As if all the powers in the universe were speaking to me at the same time. Instead of feeling small and helpless, I was filled with joy and utter comprehension. Suddenly everything made sense.’

  ‘God’s bones, William,’ I said. ‘What are you talking about?’

  My scorn didn’t register. His eyes were now glistening, wide open with madness. It was an expression I recognised of old – pulled by penitents at the sight of a holy shrine. A sort of dazed earnestness, as they are overcome with rapture. ‘In that moment, I looked up to see the vastness of the world before me, Oswald. I saw its splendour and wonder, stretching out into infinity. But then, when I looked down, I saw the village and all those feeble-minded little people, scuttling here and there. Never looking up from their wretched, meaningless lives, and I knew that I was nothing like them. In that moment I knew that I didn’t need to pretend any more. I was a giant. The heavens had just told me so. I was a de Lacy, and one day I would be Lord Somershill. Whereas those others… they were just insects. Nothing better than maggots.’

  I felt stunned. ‘I thought you said they were ants?’

  He laughed at this. ‘No, Oswald. I only used that word for your sakes. To be polite. I know you still suffer from youthful sensitivities.’

  ‘And what about Maud?’ I whispered. ‘Was she a maggot as well?’

  ‘Yes. Of course she was.’

  ‘She was your lover, William. Your accomplice.’

  His face darkened. His jaw jutted forward. Now he looked less like an elated penitent, and more like a backstreet brawler. ‘I didn’t love Maud Woodstock,’ he scoffed. ‘She was the worst of them. A grasping, ambitious maggot.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘All that foolery in the forest was her idea, you know. She was always trying to find ways to please me. It was pathetic.’

  ‘It was rape and murder,’ I said. ‘Not foolery.’ And I don’t believe that it was all Maud’s idea.’

  William grasped the bars of the portcullis with his hands. ‘No, Oswald. You’re wrong about that. It was her fault. She dreamt up the whole scheme for her own pleasure. I only joined in because I was bored.’

  ‘Maud was your devoted slave, William. She did as you told her.’

  ‘Nonsense. She was an irritation. A pest. Always following me around. Asking when I was going to get rid of my wife and marry her instead.’ William laughed contemptuously. ‘As if that was ever going to happen.’

  ‘But you allowed Maud to persist in the delusion, didn’t you? To believe that you loved her, so that she would carry on bringing women for you. I think you even killed off a string of her suitors.’

  ‘Then you are the one who’s deluded,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t kill those men. Maud did. Apparently they weren’t good enough for her to marry,’ he said, now gripping the bars so tightly that his knuckles were white. ‘Maud wanted to kill you as well, you know. I had to talk her out of it. I told her enough times. Keep an eye on Oswald’s investigation, but nothing else.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ said William, dropping his hands from the bars. ‘Stop being so gullible. The woman was even killing her own father. Slowly poisoning the man so she could watch his suffering.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘To punish the man with a slow death, of course. Because of some cruelties that he supposedly perpetrated against her as a child. That’s the sort of woman she was.’

  I thought back to Roger Woodstock’s bedchamber and Johanna’s story about the potion Maud had purchased from a woman in Winchester. No wonder the old man was regaining his speech now that Johanna had replaced Maud’s decoction with her own. In time he might even make a full recovery?

  I had been foolish not to see what was happening. And then another thought came to me. ‘Were you poisoning our father as well?’ I asked.

  William wrinkled his nose. ‘What?’

  ‘Is that why he’s forgetting names and hiding food?’

  ‘No, no,’ said William. ‘Don’t be so foolish. You’re wilfully misunderstanding what I’m saying to you. Why don’t you listen for once?’ He shook his head in frustration, nearly knocking his forehead against the bars. ‘I don’t care for Father, but his deterioration is natural. It has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘How can I believe that?’

  ‘Because Father is a de Lacy, Oswald!’ he said, leaning his face through a square in the portcullis. His complexion had regained its sheen of sweaty madness. ‘His blood flows in our veins. He is our family. And you never turn on your own family, Oswald. Never.’

  ‘What about Agnes?’ I said. ‘She was your family.’

  William drew back into the shadows, and now I could only see his eyes, bloodshot and wild. ‘She was not my daughter,’ he said. ‘You’re wrong about that.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ I replied. ‘You know it’s true.’

  ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘Agnes Wheeler was just a village girl. A maggot. I couldn’t have fathered a girl like that.’

  ‘You’re lying to yourself, William,’ I said. ‘You recognised her mother’s name. Your face gave you away.’

  William grasped the bars and leant through the small gap to shout at me. ‘SHE WAS NOT MY DAUGHTER!’

  Our eyes met for a moment, before he pulled back – taking a moment to compose himself. When he reappeared at the bars, his manner was becalmed. His voice unemotional. ‘Listen to me, Oswald,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell you what will happen now. You will stay at Kintham and you will keep your mouth shut about these women.’

  ‘Or what?’

  He ignored this question. ‘I expect you to take your vows in the coming months, work hard for a few years and then become Abbot. You will serve your family, and you will serve me, your lord.’

  ‘I will never serve you,’ I replied. ‘Not ever. I hate you, William. And I will never forget what you’ve done.’

  ‘Very well then,’ he replied solemnly. ‘You disappoint me, Oswald. But I feared this would happen.’

  He leant down to pick up a box that I hadn’t noticed before. It was a small wooden cube, no bigger than a casket for a reliquary.

  ‘This is for you, Oswald,’ he said, passing the box through the bars of the portcullis. ‘A keepsake from Somershill.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘But it belongs to you,’ he replied, holding the box out until I agreed to take it from him. ‘I couldn’t keep it.’

  His eyes fixed upon mine for one last time. ‘Until we meet again, Little Brother,’ he
called out, as he limped back towards his horse. The dagger wound was still troubling him, as he climbed with some difficulty into the saddle.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he shouted, as he turned back to wave at me. ‘When the Abbot opens these gates, I’ll be your first visitor.’ With these words, William kicked at his horse’s side and cantered away into the distance.

  Brother Peter quickly joined me. ‘Was that a threat?’ he said nervously. ‘It sounded like a threat to me.’ I couldn’t help but notice that Peter was twitching. ‘What did you say to William?’ he asked. ‘I hope you didn’t antagonise him?’

  ‘I didn’t promise my silence,’ I replied. ‘If that’s what you mean?’

  Peter rolled his eyes and cursed to himself, before pointing at the box. ‘What’s this, then?’ he asked.

  ‘William said it was a gift.’

  ‘What sort of gift?’

  ‘How should I know?’ I replied, trying to lift the lid, only for Peter to snatch the box from me.

  ‘Let me look first,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case there’s something dangerous inside.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Peter didn’t answer. Instead he opened the box and pulled out a small object. ‘What’s this?’ he asked me, holding the thing aloft.

  I took it from him. It was my pewter knight. My childhood treasure. William must have found him at the top of the northwest tower, after I’d dropped him there. I held the little knight up to the light. His tiny body was still mounted on his horse, but his head was destroyed. Crushed beyond recognition.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I suppose there are many reasons why a person will take a life. Sometimes the victims of such violence turned up in the infirmary at Kintham – brought into our care by their friends or relatives, in the vain hope that we could save their lives. (It was rarely possible.) There was the man who’d been stabbed in the chest by his rival in love. Or the woman who’d been beaten about the head by her drunken husband. Or even the old man who’d been robbed and left for dead beside the road. I understood the motives behind these attacks – jealousy, anger, greed. Such reasons were simple and straightforward. They made sense.